


The Potential Merits of Criminal Organizations

by SeptemberSky



Series: Silver Linings [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Daud (Dishonored), Implied/Referenced Torture, Low Chaos Corvo Attano, Low Chaos Daud (Dishonored), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow-ish burn, the adventures of knife dads, the author is too impatient for a real slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 20:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 81,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptemberSky/pseuds/SeptemberSky
Summary: In which Daud is more proactive, and Corvo joins the most unlikely Loyalist conspiracy in the Isles.





	1. Chapter 1

“We’re to deliver the girl to the Pendleton estate at eleven.  Be suited up and ready to leave at nine.”

“Yes, sir.”  Thomas and Rulfio nodded.  Daud glanced at Emily, who was huddled against his desk with her knees drawn up to her chest.  She’d started wailing when they left the grounds of Dunwall Tower, clawing at Thomas and demanding he let her _go_ with all the authority she could muster, until he’d turned and told her _quiet_.  She stopped instantly, white-faced and trembling, and hadn’t so much as peeped since.  Billie was standing over her with the casually threatening posture she’d worked to perfect, which seemed like a bit much for a ten-year-old.

More tears welled up and slid down her face when she realized he was looking at her, and right then, she looked just like all the other small, scared kids he’d pulled off the street and given a home. 

Daud’s chest went tight, and he tried to not think too hard about that. 

“You’ll have your own room until then,” he told her, almost against his own will.  He gestured at Leonid.  She wasn’t very imposing.  “Get her settled.  You two are dismissed.”

Thomas bowed, and they both transversed away. 

Leonid knelt in front of Emily, not too close, and extended a hand to her.  “Your Majesty, please come with me.”

Emily curled in on herself even tighter and shook her head in short, sharp jerks.  The tears came faster. 

Leonid shuffled an inch closer, hand turned as though she meant to pat Emily on the shoulder.  “Your Majesty, please.”

Emily just flattened herself against the desk.  Leonid looked up at Daud, and he could imagine her beseeching expression despite the mask.  He raised his eyebrows, shrugging.  _You know as much as I do._

Leonid extended her hand a touch farther, and Emily scrambled away from her with a whimper.  Daud took a step backward, trying to get out of her path, and planted his boot on a dodgy floorboard he’d been meaning to replace for months.  It creaked before settling into a new position with a pop. 

Emily froze, breathing shallowly.  Daud looked down at the top of her head.  She’d put herself directly at his feet.  No one moved.

Emily turned her head very, very slowly to look behind herself.  When she saw Daud’s leg, she hurled herself at Leonid with a sound of pure panic.  Leonid caught her, murmuring, “Come along Lady Emily, that’s right, this way, you’re alright, let me take you to your room,” and so on and so forth, a litany of attempted comfort.  She kept it up as they left the office, at least until the door swung shut and Daud could no longer hear them.

Anyone that didn’t know Leonid wouldn’t have caught the tremor in her voice.

Daud lit a cigarette and sank into his chair despite it groaning in protest.  He’d have to come up with a tactful way of telling Burrows to fuck off.  Void only knew what kind of job he’d come up with next, and Kieron and Quinn were both laid up in the infirmary from this one.  The Royal Protector was a damn good shot, and an even better swordsman.

This contract had been a nightmare from the outset, and it wasn’t even finished.  His hand shook as he brought his cigarette up to take another drag, rattled.

All they had to do was drop her off, and he would never have to speak to Burrows again. 

The boat trip across the river that night was uncomfortable, to say the least.  The nameless skiff had been designed to accommodate two people; three if they liked each other.  Four was excessive.  Emily, who had somehow salvaged a modicum of composure and was oddly pliant, sat in the corner opposite Daud, putting herself as far away from him as possible.  That also gave them direct sight lines on each other.  Emily didn’t seem to have thought about that.

Between the wind and the mist hanging in the air, Daud’s cigarette wouldn’t stay lit, and if there was ever a time he needed one, it was then. 

The Pendletwats had a reputation, and Daud found himself hoping Emily would be safe with them.

Not far from the Boyle place, Rulfio found some plants to hide the boat in.  They disembarked, and Emily made a face when her Mary Jane sank into the mud. 

Thomas squatted.  “Your Majesty, I need to carry you.”

Emily looked at him with great trepidation, but climbed on nonetheless, pushing her windswept hair out of her face. 

Getting to the mansion was a challenge, as Thomas could hardly be expected to balance on a streetlight with Emily on his back, but they made it with two minutes to spare. 

Daud strode up to the balcony door and knocked.  No one appeared.  He frowned.  Knocked again.  Checked his watch—eleven on the dot now—and proceeded to waste the next half hour pounding away at the Pendletons’ _own damn balcony door_ before the twins bothered to appear, decidedly rumpled.  Daud’s apprehension increased. 

They received Emily with apathy and looked at her like she was a particularly ugly heirloom chair that a still-living relative loved: something to be tolerated but ignored and thrown away at the soonest available opportunity. 

It was infuriating.

Thomas and Rulfio seemed to think so too, if the sound of creaking leather was any indication.

As it turned out, the twins wanted to _talk_ , and Daud had to stand there and make conversation about nothing through gritted teeth for another fifteen minutes until they decided they’d had enough.  Thomas, Rulfio, and Emily all kept edging closer to each other the entire time, slowly making a little knot, a barrier between Emily and the Pendletons. 

Handing her over made Daud feel like the sorriest excuse for a human being alive, but Burrows made it abundantly clear he didn’t have a choice, just like he didn’t have a choice in taking the job in the first place.  Another reason to be done with him after today.

“Try to remember to feed her,” Daud growled before leaping off the balcony.

The trip to the Estate District might have been bad, but the voyage back was worse.  The masks were abandoned as soon as they got in the boat.  Rulfio stared out across the water, his face blank.  Thomas put his head in his hands and didn’t move until they returned to the Flooded District. 

The week after he killed the Empress was downright awful.  The city roiled and heaved on itself, contracts flowing in by the dozens as the more ruthless of Dunwall’s elite tried to implement a new order, but Daud could hardly stand to look at them. 

He’d chosen his best to storm the Tower and escort Emily to her new minders.  As it turned out, his best were also the ones with their heads on straightest, and now they couldn’t get anything done. 

Leonid was falling to pieces.  He’d caught her crying several times, tucked in some corner or other with her mask off, sobbing quietly.  Thomas was always there, doing his level best to be comforting, but he clearly had no idea what to actually _do,_ his dismay glaringly obvious.  Every time he found them, Daud beat a hasty retreat.  He’d known those two for—damn, ten years or so, and he liked to imagine he knew everything worth knowing about them, but there was something so unbearably private about the thing that he couldn’t stand the thought of interrupting.  Leonid wouldn’t want to talk to him anyway. 

She had always been soft, sentimental—more suited to reconnaissance and theft than assassination and abduction.  If she wasn’t one of the stealthiest Whalers of the entire lot, he wouldn’t have involved her in this one at all. 

Come to think of it, she probably still had the little stuffed toy she insisted on bringing from the house he found her in.  The well-loved Pandyssian koala had ridden in one of his pouches while he carried her pig-a-back across the rooftops. 

Thomas, loyal to a fault, would do just about anything Daud asked him to and adhered to rigid self-imposed discipline out of respect, but that had gone out the window.  Besides that, Thomas had been the one to tether Attano and must have gotten an eyeful of exactly what they were doing to the man.  And with as close as he was to Leonid, well, Daud couldn’t blame him for letting his duties fall to the back burner.  Not when he was doing the same. 

Rulfio wouldn’t be pried away from his kid brother for love nor money.  Of course, he would be sensitive about the job—Rinaldo wasn’t that much older than Emily—and Daud knew Rulfio would gladly lay down his own life to keep him safe.  He’d given a demonstration when he recognized the Knife of Dunwall, before Daud offered them a place among the Whalers. 

Rinaldo couldn’t seem to decide whether all the rib-cracking hugs he kept getting were embarrassing or not.  Rulfio looked desperately relieved every time he dispensed one and ignored his half-hearted protests, ordering Rinaldo to be safe. 

And with Kieron and Quinn convalescing, all of his favored squad leaders, save one, were in no shape to be out in the field.

Billie was the same as always, at least.

Two days after the job, he summoned her to his office.  “Billie.  I want everyone in the field pulled back, and double patrols.  No one walks alone.  Tell Hobson and Jenkins to take over Kieron and Quinn’s groups until Montgomery lets them go.”

Billie looked at him as skeptically as she could from behind her mask, head tilted.  “Everyone?” 

He looked up from the newest contract (Tower District, “light arson,” whatever that meant, insurance fraud, destined for the discard pile).  “Was I unclear?”

She shrugged noncommittally.  “You never bring everyone back in.  What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing.  The Lord Regent has the whole city stirred up; I don’t want his lackeys getting any ideas.”  He dropped the contract in the wastebasket and picked up another one, determined to at least put a dent in the rapidly growing pile of paper before it consumed his whole desk, even if he hated looking at the things.  Billie just kept standing there, the blank glass eyes of her mask staring holes in him.

“Spit it out, Billie.”

“What’s wrong with you?” 

Daud sighed.  Genuine Billie-brand concern.  “I am fine.”

“Whatever you say, old man.”

He scowled at her, and she transversed away.

But later that night, four fresh cigarette butts littering his ashtray, he was forced to admit he was not fine.  The… _feeling_ (not regret, that purposeless emotion) that had been crushing his lungs since he watched Emily cry resurged with a vengeance, and he grimaced.  It was a job, like any other he and the Whalers had completed. 

Void take it, _it was a job_.  And it was _done_. 

But it was different.

Smoke curled upwards in hazy, portentous shapes as he exhaled.  Rain was starting to dribble through the holes in the roof, and the candle on his desk guttered slightly in the breeze.  Damn near three in the morning, and he still couldn’t sleep.  His cigarette was starting to burn awfully close to his fingers, so he stubbed it out, something terribly like dread scratching at his breastbone.

* * *

He managed two more piss-poor weeks before the Outsider chose to involve himself. 

He opened his eyes to the familiar blue nothingness of the Void, with the perpetual wind chilling him and whale song filling his ears.  He was standing in the gazebo.

The Empress was lying there in a pool of blood, a note trapped under her arm. 

Resigned, Daud knelt and picked it up.

_YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER_

He swallowed hard and moved on, his boots echoing oddly as they always did.  He had little choice but to continue.  The Outsider was always purposeful, if cryptic, and only ever provided one way through the Void.  Whatever he wanted seen would be on his path. 

Just up ahead.

There was Attano, naked to the waist and strapped down in an interrogation chair, his face twisted in pain as an enormous man pressed a hot iron to his skin—not for the first time.  His back was arched, his hands white-knuckle tight around the arms of the chair.  Burrows and Campbell stood behind the torturer, looking disgustingly satisfied. 

The bodyguard didn’t deserve that.  Not when it was Daud’s burden to bear. 

He transversed across a gap to the next scene.

Weepers covered in blood and vomit were being herded toward one of the newly erected Walls of Light by the City Watch, rats nipping at their heels.  The guards were frozen in the act of bellowing as they brandished their swords, revulsion written in every line of their bodies.  An unfortunate watchman had fallen and was pinned down by a weeper.  One of his colleagues was drawing his pistol, though to shoot at the weeper or the guard, Daud wasn’t sure.   

Bile rose in his throat.  He carefully crossed a narrow bridge to see what else the Outsider wished to show him. 

This picture made little sense.  A woman dressed in ragged, rose-accented finery with an elaborate piled-up hairstyle was standing at a table, grinding something brilliantly blue with a mortar and pestle.  Her eyes were fever-bright and the muscles in her arms stood out from strain.  Her lips made a shape like she was saying something.  Several other bowls of garish colors sat on the tabletop—purple, green, orange.

How she fit into anything, Daud had no idea. 

It took some time to get to the next little exhibition.  His irritation only grew with every floating chunk of city he had to cross.  The Outsider was building up to something, he had to be.  Daud had never appreciated his flair for dramatics. 

_Finally_.  

It was a section of a bedroom.  The door and two adjacent walls had been included, but the other corner was missing so he could see inside.  Beyond the confines of the room, one of the Pendletons—Morgan or Custis, he was never going to be able to tell them apart— was strolling arm-in-arm with a woman, smiling at her lecherously.  The first two or three of his shirt buttons were undone.  The woman was wearing an expression clearly engineered to seem flirtatious, which actually looked more predatory than anything else. 

Inside the room was a narrow bed and tiny bedside table, and apparently little else.  Daud could just see a shape sticking up past the mattress and stepped closer to investigate. 

Emily sat on the floor, back to the bed, holding a crayon.  She was drawing a picture of herself standing in green grass between the Empress and Attano, holding their hands.  All three figures, and the sun in the corner, were smiling.  “Mommy” and “Daddy” had been carefully written above her parents’ heads. 

_Both_ her parents’ heads.

Emily’s face was scrunched in a frown.  Tears glinted on her eyelashes.  The lantern shone just so, and Daud could see the ring of faint bruises around her wrist. 

His knees would no longer support him, and he found himself shoulder to shoulder with Emily against the little bed, grateful it was as solid as its real-world counterparts as he took great gulps of air.  An old memory surfaced, unbidden and (at the moment) entirely unwanted: his mother kneeling before him in their sunlit kitchen in Karnaca, her grey eyes even with his as she gently pinched his cheek and told him… something important, he couldn’t remember what.  He couldn’t even remember her voice.  Hadn’t even been able to tell her goodbye. 

He had made a mistake.  He had made a _horrible_ mistake. 

Daud allowed himself precisely two minutes of unbridled emotion.  No more.  And when those two minutes were up, he forced himself to his feet and smoothed back his hair. 

“What do you want?” he snarled, looking out across the endless blank expanse of the Void.  It did not reply.  In the distance, a stream of water flowed up. 

Then a path revealed itself, coming into being as though it had been there all along, just waiting to be noticed.  Daud trudged along it, beyond ready to leave.

 The Outsider coalesced under an archway.

“Congratulations, Daud.  You’ve got my interest again.”

“I’m flattered,” Daud said dryly.  

 The Outsider dissolved into specks and reformed, sitting a few feet away, feet dangling over the abyss.  “How the years pass, and the bodies fall.  Did you know that there are only seven like you in the world, bearing my mark?”

Daud did not know that but didn’t bother interrupting the Outsider to tell him so.  He would just be ignored anyway, as he usually was. 

“I’m here because you’re right, the Empress was different.  This time, you can’t just fade away into the shadows.  There will be consequences.  Your story is close to ending, and even you can’t escape it.”

Daud wished he would just get to the point. 

The Outsider dissolved and reappeared again, uncomfortably close, walking in a slow circle around him.  “But what ending will you make for yourself?  I’m here to give you one more gift, Daud.  It’s a mystery.  One that starts with a name.”  He leaned in, whispering, “Delilah.”

* * *

Thomas, ever a morning person, rose with the dawn.  He eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Leonid (she deserved the rest) and pressed a kiss to her forehead.  He dressed quietly, wrote a note, and left it on the bedside table, folded such that it stuck up from the tabletop.  

_I went to get breakfast and give Quinn her coffee.  I’ll be back soon with yours._

_Love, T._

Tynan and his group of novices were the only other ones in the dining room.  The pups still looked half-asleep as they ate their breakfasts slowly and mechanically, as though it took great effort to bring their forks to their mouths.  Tynan was terribly chipper, of course, bidding Thomas a loud and cheerful _good morning_.  One of the novices seated directly beside him shot him a hate-filled glare. 

Thomas poured two cups of coffee and went to the infirmary to visit Quinn.

“Thomas, you are a _lifesaver_ ,” she said, wrapping her hands around her mug.  “I would be lost without you.  Damn, that’s hot.”

Thomas settled into the chair he’d dragged over to her bedside, doubtful.  Quinn was more than capable of taking care of herself when she wasn’t injured.  “How’s your leg?”

She shrugged.  “Good?  I guess?  Still itches like mad, but Monty says that means it’s healing.”  She scrubbed her hands through her hair, making it stick up in wild angles.  “I’m going fucking stir-crazy.  Wish the Royal Protector had just sliced me like Kieron; I’d already be out of here.”

“Kieron nearly died.”  His blood must have stained half the rooftops in Dunwall after their mad flight back home. 

“Yeah, well,” she said, flapping a hand, “he’s fine now.  And running around, _unlike me_.”  She paused, twisting her hands together.  “I feel like shit though.  I can’t do anything but sit here and think.  I don’t know.  I feel like we fucked up.  I mean, the Princess is just a kid, she’s a _little girl_.  I’ll kidnap some old fuck noble, no problem, but a kid?  What were we _thinking_?  And now everyone’s acting weird, and Daud’s got everyone cooped up here, so even _he’s_ worried, right?”  She looked at him, eyes wide. 

He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.  “I’m sorry, I’m just so ready to be out of here, I can’t stand it.  I don’t know what’s going on.  I hate it.  I just want to see something other than the inside of this place.”

“We could steal a wheelchair for you.”

Quinn snorted.  “Like I could wheel anywhere around here.  It’d be a fucking obstacle course.  I’d try to transverse somewhere and leave the chair behind and Daud would be all,” she mimed holding a cigarette and dropped her voice into a terrible impression of him, “‘What were you trying to do, dumbass’ and I’d be there on the floor, busted to pieces again, moaning.  No thanks, I’ll stay where I am.”

“Don’t say I never offered.”

“Right.  Can’t be too much longer though, right?  I mean, it’s been nearly a month.”

“I haven’t the foggiest.  Ask Montgomery.”  Thomas glanced at the battered mantle clock and rose from his chair. 

“Right, yeah, go see what Daud wants you to do.  See you, Thommy.”

“Goodbye, Quinn.”

* * *

Daud wrenched out of sleep and immediately flung himself out of bed.  He hurried down the stairs, deep in thought.  Delilah.  Delilah.  He didn’t know of anyone with that name, though it wouldn’t be much of a mystery if he did.  She was important, clearly, though it was possible that Delilah was a named object and not a person.  A password?  A project?  A new gang leader?

He might be almost out of time, but that was fine.  He could still put things to rights as best he could.

He tore everything but the map of Dunwall off the pinboard and dumped it on the floor.  Grabbing a scrap of paper, he scrawled _DELILAH_ and stuck it to the middle of the Wrenhaven, right over Kaldwin’s Bridge. 

He paused.  Seventeen districts, about two hundred thousand people.  And he was looking for one something called Delilah.  Not an insurmountable task, but a difficult one, even for the Whalers. 

There was also the matter of their young Empress.  He had no idea if Emily was still with the Pendletons, so he whipped around and started to dig through his and Burrows’ old correspondence, looking for something, _anything_ , that would point him to where she was to be kept long-term.

He drummed his fingers on the desk.  Emily would want her—father.  And he was locked up tight in Coldridge.  No one had ever escaped Coldridge.

No one had ever had help.

Daud started tearing through his desk once more.

Thomas chose that specific moment to walk in and wondered if Daud had gone mad.  His office, usually neat or in a state of controlled chaos, was in complete disorder.  Daud himself was only half-dressed, hair a mess, and rifling through his papers like his very life depended on it. 

Thomas was glad he had his coffee.  He took a sip.  Little Thomas must have been in charge of the percolator; it was actually good. 

Daud upended a box of audiograph cards and started inspecting the dates written on each one, squinting at his own handwriting.

Thomas took another sip, needing the fortification.  “Sir?”

“Thomas.”  Daud waved him closer.  “We have a job.”

“From who?”

“The Outsider.”  Daud crossed the office and rapped his knuckles twice against the pinboard.  “Enigmatic bastard gave me a name and nothing else.” 

Thomas frowned and took another sip.  “Not terribly helpful.”

Daud hummed in agreement.  “How’s Leonid?”

“Better.  She lost her own parents when she was… twelve, I believe.  She handled taking another child from her mother poorly.”  Thomas had never felt so useless in his life.

“It wasn’t supposed to go that way.” 

“I know.  She knows,” Thomas said.  “She doesn’t blame you.”

Daud did nothing more than tighten his lips and frown, and Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that.  But he straightened, the familiar excitement of a new undertaking waking him more effectively than the coffee.  “What do you need us to do?”

“I want Leonid, Billie, and Kieron looking for Delilah, whatever it might be.  And Thomas,” Daud paused, looking conflicted.  “I want you and Rulfio to find a way into Coldridge.”

* * *

In an old pub by the river, three men toasted the formation of a new alliance, ignoring the other five people who shared their purpose.  Their hands still stung and smeared blood over their glasses and flask, but that was no matter.  They shared no trust or friendship, but each man was useful, and each man would play his own part in the coming days. 

It was to be a profitable venture.


	2. Chapter 2

Burrows was running out of patience.

Early on, he had spent entire afternoons in the interrogation room, subjecting Corvo to intense pain until he hovered on the edge of consciousness, and then switching to something approximating pleasant, trying to cajole him into confessing to Jessamine’s murder.  When it didn’t work, he would get bored and go back to pain.  He never did it himself though, oh no, it was always that hulking brute of an interrogator.  His visits (if they could be called that) had gradually decreased in duration, and he hadn’t even shown up in almost a week.

Corvo knew he was running out of time. 

He could hardly bring himself to truly care.  He would have once, he knew, but the Corvo who would have fought was one five months gone.  That Corvo hadn’t spent almost half a year in Coldridge being regularly tortured and wasn’t weighed down with grief and helpless rage.  That Corvo still had Jessamine and Emily. 

So, after staring out the window a while, just watching the boats go by, he lay down on the concrete slab they claimed was a bed and waited for his poor excuse for supper to arrive.  He had no way of telling the exact time (after all, who knew what the inner workings of a pocket watch could be used for), but the sun had already set, so he couldn’t have too long to wait.  His stomach rumbled, and he started to slip into a doze. 

A hand settled softly on his upper arm and a voice whispered, “Lord Attano?”

He started violently and found himself looking up at a man in a dark jacket whose curling blonde hair was in disarray.  Certainly not a guard.  Corvo stared at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“Lord Attano, can you stand?”

Corvo nodded, not trusting his voice.  His throat still felt raw and ached terribly.

“Follow me,” the man said, and walked out the open cell door.  Corvo sat there a moment, baffled, before scrambling to his feet and giving chase.  Down the hall, there was another person in an identical jacket with equally mussed brown hair crouched behind one of the metal barriers the City Watch was so fond of.  She glanced at him briefly and murmured _sir_ before addressing the other man.  “No one’s come along yet.  Let’s go.”

The whole party crept through the bowels of Coldridge silently, the pair leading and Corvo following, swept along in their wake.  As they went, they stole everything that wasn’t nailed down, from loose coin and copper wire to tins of hagfish, packing it all into a seemingly endless number of pockets and pouches.  Corvo felt a brief flash of indignation—he was the Royal Protector and generally expected people to abide by the law—but beggars could not be choosers and he started sweeping change into his own tattered pockets.  If these people were friendly and he got out alive, he was going to need the money. 

The pair knew what they were doing, that much was obvious.  And they knew each other well, communicating with gestures and hand signals whose exact meaning was lost to Corvo. 

The loudspeakers kept going off, much to everyone’s displeasure.  Every time they crackled to life, at least one of them would jump, though the sound of the announcement itself provided good cover noise.

_Attention: the solitary wing is off-limits to maintenance crews, unless accompanied by an officer of the Watch. Escort through the solitary wing must be scheduled in advance, with one week's notice._

If Corvo never had to hear that again, it would be too soon. 

They took the walkway above the yard, went down and around the stairs, and Corvo halted. 

There was the door. 

Suddenly, he was right there again, with rough hands clamped brutally tight around his biceps, unyielding, pulling him toward that door without mercy, regardless of his struggling, his shirt chafing painfully against skin that never had time to heal.  He mustn’t say a word, not _one_ —

It was only when the woman softly said, “Come on,” from right beside him that he realized how quickly he was breathing, how loud his pulse rushed in his ears.  He shook himself and bade his feet to move.

There was another man was peering through the other, more benevolent door.  He was also clad in a dark jacket and his hair was just as disheveled as the others’, and Corvo’s suspicions grew.  Unless things had changed, the number of operations in Dunwall organized enough to pull this off could be counted on one hand, and he wanted nothing to do with any of them. 

“They haven’t noticed a thing,” the third man whispered, and Corvo noticed the watchmen still patrolling in the yard.  He barely had a moment to wonder how these people had gotten past them on the way in before the blonde man and the woman nodded at each other and took positions by the door.  They extended their left arms and a moment later, the guards fell to the ground, familiar darts sticking jauntily out of their necks.  All three of his new companions hurried across the yard and Corvo followed, feeling like a tagalong to his own jailbreak.

The whole trio went boiling through the control room door at once just as another one of the infernal announcements played.  Corvo heard half a shout and two dull thumps and went in to find more unconscious guards slumped gracelessly on the floor.  The two men were stuffing their pockets with yet more coin, and the newest addition—who Corvo dubbed _Serkonan_ on account of his deep tan complexion—actually peeled open a tin of brined hagfish and started eating it before the woman hissed at them to hurry up from atop some exposed pipes.  Just how she had gotten up there so damn quickly, Corvo had no idea. 

From atop the pipes, they looked down at the last two guards between them and the outside world.  There was a frantic hope starting to flutter in Corvo’s chest—he was _so close_ , and even if this bizarrely competent little party turned out to be rather less friendly than they were letting on, he could fight his way past them and on to freedom.  He could find Emily, unless—

No.  _No_.  She had been taken, not…  She was alright.  He would find her.

The woman dropped to the floor and padded up behind one of the watchmen.  She drove her fist into the back of his thigh, hard.  He didn’t make a sound, and started to go down, his face contorted in comical surprise.  When he was on her level, the woman wound her arm around his throat and tidily knocked him out.  The blonde man did much the same to the other one, without including the vicious punch. 

Corvo and the Serkonan followed them.  The Serkonan walked across the room, pulling something from the depths of his coat, and affixed it to the outer door before turning and sprinting back to the others.  They all huddled by the stairs, Corvo just following everyone else’s lead, and they had to look fairly ridiculous, four grown people peeking around the steps to stare at a little thing stuck to the door.

Then there _was_ no door.

And suddenly the trio weren’t professionals, they were kids whooping in delight at the destruction as they sprang up and ran toward the new hole in the wall.  Their joy was infectious.  Corvo’s ears were ringing and alarms were ringing and guards were starting to fuss, bellowing and probably coming to try to kill them, but adrenaline was singing in his veins and he _did not care_ , and grinned so hard his cheeks ached as he tore across the room and leapt into the canal after the others.

Icy water shot up his nose.  He surfaced, gasping.

“We’ll go to the sewers,” the Serkonan panted beside him.  “Over there.”

Corvo nodded.  He swam, glad for the first time that he had been relieved of his heavy Royal Protector’s coat. 

In the sewers, they all went deadly serious again, half running and leaving a very obvious trail of drips and wet footprints that even the densest Lower Guard would be hard pressed to miss, but the blonde man didn’t slow down to let them dry off a bit, following a path he seemed to have memorized.  Suddenly, he veered off down a small side tunnel and started pawing through a pile of debris, unearthing a crate.  He opened it, revealing that it was full to the brim with towels and dry clothes, four gleaming vials of Sokolov’s elixir arranged on top.  The man tossed one to Corvo and he drank it down in three greedy gulps, feeling a bit better almost at once. 

“Here,” the woman said, holding out a towel and clothing in one hand and a pair of boots in the other.  “I hope it all fits well enough.”

Corvo tried to thank her, but his voice didn’t cooperate, and by the time he’d gotten it working again, she had moved off. 

He faced the wall and peeled out of his sodden, filthy shirt and trousers, letting them slap to the floor unceremoniously.  They would not be missed. 

The towel was a bit threadbare and frayed at the edges.  It might have been a deep green long ago but had been washed so many times it had faded almost grey.  It was the cleanest, softest thing he’d encountered in months. 

He luxuriated in it as he dried off, wiping away more grime than he’d care to admit.  The uniform (that was what it had to be, no one just _had_ that many duplicate jackets) was even better.  The trousers were a touch short and the boots squeezed his toes slightly, and it took him entirely too long to close up the peculiar waistcoat, fumbling with shaky fingers (why did it have so many _buttons?_ ), but it was warm, and dry, and still smelled faintly of soap. 

It was wonderful.

They reconvened in the main tunnel, now a drier, matched set, and the woman started to giggle, muffling it into her hand. 

“‘Impregnable,’ my left foot,” she said, crooking her fingers in quotation marks and struggling to contain her laughter.  “By the Void, we just made _history_.”

“Indeed,” the blonde man said, fighting back a smile, and then those two were falling all over each other, cackling near-silently, still giddy from the rush of adrenaline.  Even Corvo managed a rough little chuckle.  Suspicions aside, he was beginning to like this odd little group.  He hoped he wasn’t going to have to hurt them. 

“Come on,” the Serkonan finally said, still laughing to himself.  “The Watch will figure out where we went eventually.”

* * *

Dunwall’s sewer system was extensive, to put it mildly—a twisting warren of haphazard tunnels that seemed to have little forethought put into their construction.  It would have been terribly easy to get lost. 

Corvo certainly was.  He had lost track of their route twenty minutes earlier in what was coming up on an hour-long trek.  He was tired and aching all over, but the blonde man kept up a relentless pace, trying to stay ahead of the City Watch.

The other possibility—that they were leading Corvo deep into the sewers to kill him where his body would never be found—didn’t bear thinking about. 

A puff of fresher air gusted down the tunnel and their leader abruptly slowed down, saying, “Here we are.”

They entered a large vaulted space, a convergence point of several tunnels.  Dripping pipes snaked around the walls, and weak greenish light filtered in from somewhere up above.  There was a man standing across the room, smoking.  He wore a red coat.

Physical descriptions of the Whalers were hard to come by.  Those that did see them often wouldn’t talk, and the ones that would usually stuck to three characteristics: dark clothes, big knives, and vapor masks.  The Knife of Dunwall himself was even more elusive, and his victims weren’t exactly able to provide a description to a sketch artist.  As such, all the wanted posters just pictured him with one of the masks on, like he didn’t have an actual face under there.  But five months earlier, on the worst day of Corvo’s life, Daud had revealed himself, and Corvo committed his appearance to memory. 

And there he stood, puffing on a cigarette like this was some kind of damned social call.

Corvo hurtled across the room and tried to shout _Daud_ or _you_ and said both at the same time in an incoherent gargle of rage.  His fist made an extremely satisfying connection with Daud’s nose before he slammed the man into the wall with a forearm braced across his throat, his other fist still drawn back.  And Corvo stilled himself, because Daud just… let him.  Didn’t resist at all, only grimaced when his head bounced off the bricks. 

The other three—Whalers, he’d been sprung out of prison in fifteen minutes flat by _Whalers_ , why hadn’t he put the pieces together before—surrounded them, swords drawn, faces hard. 

“Stand down, you three,” Daud said, blood flowing freely down his front, and the Whalers lowered their blades a fraction but didn’t relax.  “I said _stand down_.”  They complied with obvious reluctance, sheathing their swords and standing in a tense ring. 

The only sounds were the dripping of water and Corvo’s ragged breathing. 

He stared at Daud, angry but mostly confused.  Why?  Why would Daud free him after—after killing Jessamine and taking Emily?  After letting him take the blame and spend months behind bars, being tortured?  Why would he send three people to rescue the man who should, by all rights, be his enemy? 

And he hadn’t seen them take so much as a single life.  All the guardsmen had been darted or choked out.  They could have slit their throats instead, so easily.  Then they had given him clothes, proper clothes, and laughed like they might become friends. 

It didn’t make any damned _sense_ , and all Corvo could see was Jessamine, run clean through and dying in his arms. 

He cleared his throat once, twice, and said the first thing that came to mind.  “What the _fuck_?”

And he winced inwardly, for his voice was a rasping, awful thing.   

Daud spoke very calmly and quietly, not even attempting to pry himself out of Corvo’s grip.  “When I killed your Empress and took her daughter, something broke inside me.  I started to feel the weight of all I’ve done—the years of waiting for the right moment to step forward from an alley and drive a knife between the ribs of some noble.  All the money exchanging hands, from one rich bastard or another.  Killing for one of them one year, then being paid to kill him in return the next.  But what have I accomplished?  I would help you find Emily and bring her back to Dunwall Tower.  Where she should be, where she should never have left.  I’ve had enough killing.  But my life is in your hands.  Make your choice.”

Corvo’s clenched fist started to shake as many he felt many things at once—mostly fury at how Daud could just stand there and offer the aid of murderers with such insufferable, practiced calm, and grief.  Yet there was hope so powerful it hurt, his heart pounding _Emily Emily Emily_ because she was alive.  She was _alive_.  He could find her and bring her home. 

But he was only one man and Dunwall, even stricken with plague, was a city hundreds of thousands strong.  Everyone would know he had escaped soon.  He had no idea where to begin to look.  He had no money, no food, no place to stay.  And he was so, so tired. 

In the end, it was an easy choice.  It wasn’t a choice at all.

He backed away and nodded once, sharply.  Daud nodded in return and lit another cigarette to replace the one he lost, using it to point at each of his people.

“This is Rulfio, Leonid, and Thomas.”  He indicated the Serkonan, the woman, and the blonde man in turn.  “Three of my most trusted.”

“Back to the Flooded District, sir?” Thomas asked.

“Yes, let’s go.” 

They emerged from the sewers right beside the Wrenhaven.  A small motorboat waited, tethered among the reeds.  Three vapor masks lay abandoned in the bottom.  It was a tight squeeze, but Leonid sat on Thomas, who didn’t seem to mind that arrangement.  Rulfio started the engine, and they made for the opposite bank. 

It was tense.

Soon, they were going down the flooded remains of Agrosh Way, buildings looming ominously above them.  Corvo could hear nothing but the purring of the engine and the sound of little waves lapping at the buildings.  Rats sniffed the air from a wooden walkway.  Somewhere a river krust grumbled to itself, disturbed by their passage. 

Daud grumbled to himself, disturbed by the river krust.

It was downright desolate, and the whole place seemed sick, somehow, as if the buildings themselves had caught the plague and were just waiting to crumble into the river and be done with it all.

Corvo wrapped his coat around himself a little tighter.

Rulfio cut the engine and they drifted to a stop.  After disembarking, Daud looked the Whalers over with a critical eye, said, “Thomas, you take Attano,” and disappeared in a flurry of shadows. 

Corvo blinked.  So that hadn’t been a figment of his imagination.

Thomas grasped him firmly by the upper arm and moment later, they stood on a narrow, ramshackle bridge running between two buildings.  Corvo stumbled, unnerved by the unpleasant sensation of—teleporting, he supposed—without knowing where he was going to end up. 

“Sorry, sir,” Thomas said, and released him.  They made their way down some half-broken stairs, across an open area lit with horridly bright lights, and through an old rail station, onto a sheet metal bridge above a flooded street.

Corvo’s eyes widened.  The Financial District was bustling.  There were Whalers everywhere—some clearly on watch, while others stood around chatting.  Every so often, one of them would flit from one place to another, just as Thomas and Daud had done. 

Lanterns shone from all the windows, their warm yellow glow at odds with the dilapidation of the buildings.  Everything was crumbling brick and rotting wood held together with shoddy repairs and hope, but it felt, bizarrely, like a home.

An enormous statue of Jessamine gazed severely over it all, and Corvo flinched when he saw it. 

Daud’s bloody nose attracted some attention as they passed by, but no one was bold enough to ask what happened.  The Whalers also examined Corvo, expressions hidden.  It was disconcerting.  At court, nobles would lie to Jessamine and him through their teeth as often as they could get away with it, and even when they couldn’t, but he could usually get at least an inkling of what they were really thinking.  The masks prevented even that. 

Daud went to climb through a window on the Chamber of Commerce and paused when he noticed Corvo swaying where he stood.  It was hardly late, not even nine o’clock yet if he had to guess, but he hadn’t truly rested in months.  His exhaustion ran bone-deep. 

“Thomas, take Attano to the apartments,” Daud said, passing him a key, and went inside, Rulfio and Leonid following.

“Lord Attano, if you will,” Thomas said, before turning around and walking in the exact opposite direction from which they came.  Corvo sighed, trudging along behind him.

They took a complicated route over, and around, and under the partially ruined buildings.  They even had to climb a dangling chain at one point before reaching the apartments, which were actually in an apartment building, much to Corvo’s surprise. 

His new lodgings were on the top floor.  Thomas left him at the door, saying, “Here is your key.  The plumbing works.  Goodbye, sir.”

That did little to inspire confidence about what Corvo would find inside, but he unlocked the door and went in anyway.  It was all surprisingly well-appointed.  There was a living room with a matching couch and chairs, which were worn but whole and looked comfortable.  The kitchen was small, and investigation confirmed he had a modest set of cookware, and plates to go with it.  Steel cutlery in one of the drawers.  Two bedrooms, both with beds.  One bathroom, outfitted with toiletries.  Nothing untoward, nothing out of the ordinary. 

His hosts had been thorough in their preparations, and that was almost more uncomfortable than the fact that the Whalers were hosting him in the first place. 

He didn’t like it.

He was very tired though, and disgusting, so he made for the bathroom.  He sat on the edge of the tub and turned the knobs experimentally, still skeptical.  The pipes gurgled, and thumped, and groaned, but after a minute a stream of water issued from the faucet.  It wasn’t hot, per se, but it wasn’t cold either, so Corvo undressed and climbed in. 

He changed the water once when it turned grey, and once more just because he could. 

When the water drained away and he toweled off, he felt human once more, clean and scented lightly of lavender.

Standing before the mirror, he contemplated himself in a detached sort of way and decided to shave.  That was generally a morning activity, but he just couldn’t stand the straggly beard he’d ended up cultivating in Coldridge any longer.  He almost killed the razor getting rid of it.  What a novelty, to hold a razor again. 

At least they’d allowed him to clean his teeth.  He did that too. 

His nightly preparations done, he pulled on a pair of soft pants and collapsed into bed, asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

“And you weren’t seen?”

“No.  One guard saw another collapse after I darted him, but he never laid eyes on us,” Leonid confirmed.  She yawned widely.  “Oh, goodness.” 

“They did notice when we blew the door up,” Rulfio said.

“That’s why we left the inner door closed.  So they couldn’t see.”

The door opened, and Thomas entered the office. 

“How did he take to the apartment?”

“As well as could be expected, I think.  I watched him after he went in, and he was looking everything over.”

Daud nodded.  A certain amount of paranoia was understandable, especially considering the Whalers’ recently abandoned occupation.  He just had to hope Attano didn’t reconsider his decision once he’d had a night’s sleep and a solid meal and go rushing off half-cocked into something that would get him killed. 

A Royal Protector shouldn’t be the type to do that, but after everything that had happened… well, Daud had seen stranger things. 

“Do you think he’ll stay?” Leonid asked, looking to Thomas.

“I can’t be certain.”  

“I hope he does,” Leonid said softly.  Everyone went quiet, probably all thinking of the same possibility that crossed Daud’s mind.

He broke the silence.  “You all did well.  Go, get some rest.” 

“Yes, sir,” Rulfio said, stifling a yawn.  He stretched, popped his neck, and transversed away.  Leonid put her hands up, and Thomas helped her up off the patch of floor she’d claimed before they strolled out, hand in hand.

Daud went upstairs and sat on his bed, thinking of the disgraced Royal Protector.  Months ago, he had been dead-eyed, numb with shock and unresisting as he was dragged away. 

The ragged scarecrow they’d picked up was a far cry from the man he’d once been—unkempt and gaunt, long hair grown even longer and hanging in his face in tangled, greasy strands.  He seemed to burn with righteous anger, even as he shook like a leaf in a summer storm. 

Daud hadn’t entirely expected to walk away from that encounter, much less with nothing more than a broken nose.  He deserved much worse. 

He just hoped this might start to make things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Thank you guys so much for all your lovely comments, you've honestly been making my days.


	3. Chapter 3

Corvo opened his eyes to soft light and the sound of rain.  He stretched luxuriantly, comfortable under the covers.  He was surprised he’d slept as little as he did—judging by the light, it was close to dawn.  Old habits die hard, indeed.  No matter.  He allowed himself to lounge a while longer, filled with a strange sense of calm. 

After a time, he did rise to seek some breakfast, despite not being hungry.  Odd.  He’d hardly been fed for months and hadn’t even eaten dinner the night before.  The pervasive calm won out over any worried impulse he might’ve had though, and he chalked it up to some bodily response to long-term deprivation. 

In his exhaustion, he seemed to have forgotten to lock the door.  Ah well.  He hadn’t been disturbed.  He opened the door and stopped in his tracks, calm evaporating instantly.

This was not the apartment building.

Instead of a hallway, his door opened to a wide blue expanse of nothingness.  A cold wind blew, making his ears ache.  When he made the mistake of looking down, he discovered that the sun, or its equivalent, hung somewhere below him, purplish instead of the usual pale yellow.  Rocks spun in the air, held aloft by no apparent mechanism.  A pipe jutted from the floor and ended abruptly just past the boards, and water flowed out of it, upward, in complete defiance of the natural order of things. 

It was all extremely disconcerting, and Corvo briefly entertained the notion that the water was running the correct direction and that he was simply upside-down, but that was somehow worse than the water being wrong. 

He’d never had a lucid dream before. 

That was the only explanation.  This clearly wasn’t the waking world, and he wasn’t blindly accepting the absurdity the way he would if it was a regular dream.  Though there was a strange weight to the whole place, a sense of immense age, that felt foreign and not of his own invention. 

His feet carried him up some crumbling stairs and onto what should have been the roof.  Instead, it was a flat platform of white stone.  Corvo walked forward a few more paces, pulled toward one corner by a compulsion he couldn’t explain.

Before him, a young man materialized out of nothing.  He wore a fashionable black jacket, and his dark hair was combed neatly across his forehead.  He had his arms folded across his chest, and Corvo could see he wore a silver ring on one index finger.  He looked rather like any well-to-do young person that could be spotted at Draper’s Ward on a day out, except for the fact that he had appeared out of thin air.

And his eyes were a shining black from edge to edge.

“Hello Corvo,” he said, his voice a soft tenor that echoed faintly.  “Your life has taken a turn, has it not?  Out of all the possible futures I saw, this was the least likely, yet here we are.  You will play a pivotal role in the days to come, and for this I have drawn you into the Void.  I am the Outsider, and this is my Mark.”

He gestured, and the back of Corvo’s left hand began to burn as though he had plunged it into a bucket of ice.  He watched as a design formed, glowing gold before settling into a deep black, not unlike a tattoo. 

“There are great forces in and beyond the world that men call magic, and now these forces will bend to your will.”  The Outsider smiled a little, just the slightest uptick at the corners of his mouth.  “Come find me.”

And then he vanished.

Corvo looked at his hand, which still prickled.  This was clearly not a dream. 

There had always been whispers that Daud was a heretic, Marked even, and while he had never put much stock in the rumors, he had seen firsthand that he and the Whalers could do things no ordinary person was capable of.  Now it seemed he was much the same as them.  The thought rankled. 

He walked to the edge of the platform.  Another chunk of rock floated about twenty feet away, too far to jump.  He clenched his fist, the action feeling right somehow, and the world bent around him. 

He staggered, finding himself on the next platform.  Moving across the gap had only taken the time of a blink.  He got to his feet and looked forward.  Dunwall Tower’s gazebo hung in front of him, and he blinked to it with a terrible sense of foreboding.

A perfect replica of Jessamine lay there in a wide pool of blood.  Corvo swallowed a sob.  The note he’d brought from Duke Abele lay just beside her, and he crouched to pick it up. 

_YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER_

Corvo bit his lip so hard it bled but couldn’t entirely restrain the wounded sound he made.  He shook and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as he forced himself to take deep, full breaths, fighting past the pain that had been lodged in his chest for five long months. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.  “I’m _so sorry_.”  He wrenched himself away, blinking once, twice, three times, desperate to leave the awful facsimile of Jessamine behind.

He only sent himself out of the frying pan and into the fire, such as it was, because now Emily was in front of him, frozen and afraid, her wrist gripped by none other than one of the Pendleton twins.  The other stood off to the side.  Both looked angry, and Corvo’s blood boiled.  Were they anything other than inert statues, the Pendletons’ structural integrity would have been in danger.

Emily was holding a rolled-up piece of paper, and Corvo carefully pulled it from her hand, not wanting to tear it. 

_Corvo_ , it read,

_I am very sad.  They say you’re dead like Mother, but I’m going to put this note in a bottle and throw it in the river because I do not believe them.  Living here is very strange.  I do not like it, so please come for me if you can._

All the fury bled out of him and he was left with grief again.  He swallowed past the lump in his throat and packed the ache away in a little corner of his heart, his resolve hardening.  He had to find Emily, and soon. 

He made a note of the scenery around the whole affair.  Fancy, but overwrought, with overstuffed chairs, tacky wallpaper, and a truly excessive number of plants.  It didn’t look like the inside of any noble’s house. 

He blinked onward—the Outsider must have been determined he master his new ability—and found another scene. 

Hiram Burrows stood in this one, by a tabletop map of Dunwall.  More maps were hung on a board that was presumably attached to a wall in the real world but was floating in the Void. 

Corvo’s lip curled in disgust and he jumped down to the next area.  Nothing interesting to see there.

Two plague victims, almost but not quite weepers, leaned on each other even as a tallboy’s arrow sped towards them, trailing fire.  A huge metal barrier served as a backdrop, and a streetlight rotated lazily nearby.  The people looked…not peaceful, resigned perhaps, in their last moments of life, and Corvo pitied them.  Jessamine would never have allowed the tallboys to stand. 

He climbed up a rock, and then walked down some ornate spiral stairs.  Finding a lit candelabrum, he blew on it just to see if the candles would go out.  They did. 

The Outsider appeared again, sitting on a chest and fidgeting. 

“In the days that follow, your trials will be great, Corvo.  Seek runes bearing my mark in the lonely places of the world—runes that will grant you greater powers.  To find them, I give you another gift: the heart of a living thing, molded by my hands.”  The Outsider held it out to Corvo, cradled in his palms. 

It was dry and slightly leathery to the touch.  A window in the muscle allowed him to see the delicate gears housed inside.  It was a little thing, smaller than his clenched fist, and he held it gently.

“With this, you can hear many secrets, and it will guide you to runes, no matter how they may be hidden.”  The Outsider smiled again.  “Find one.”  Then he was gone.

Corvo looked down at the heart in his hand.  It beat once, the mechanism inside turning and glowing.  He adjusted his grip on it, profoundly uncomfortable, and accidently squeezed it lightly in doing so.

_The one who walks here is all things—cradle songs of comfort and bones gnawed by teeth._

Corvo stared at it in horror.  He resisted the powerful urge to drop it, cast it away— because how could he?  How could he, when he held Jessamine’s very heart in his hand? 

It was _grotesque_ , yet he couldn’t help but be glad, in some horrible way, to have this last remnant of her.

He held the Heart out in one shaking hand, and when he pointed it in front of himself and slightly to the right, its pulse quickened. 

Getting to the rune took him through what looked like a section of the Flooded District.  Drawers were floating out of a tall filing cabinet, and he had to bat them away as he passed.  As he drew closer, the Heart kept beating faster until it was almost hard to hang on to, the mechanism inside glowing bright enough to make Corvo see spots.  He could see an indistinct shape beyond the glass double doors at the end of the room and opened them.

He had never seen a shrine to the Outsider before, but there was no mistaking it—driftwood held together with barbed wire, purple fabric billowing up behind it, with something that could only be a rune singing on the altar. 

The Heart was pounding frantically by that point, so he tucked it into a pocket and drew closer. 

He picked up the rune, ran his fingers over the warm, smooth bone, and it crumbled to ash a moment later. 

“How you use these gifts falls on you alone, just as it has for the others I Marked.”  Corvo startled.  The Outsider had shown up without his noticing.  “Now I return you to your world, but know that I will be watching with great interest.”

* * *

Corvo blearily opened his eyes, only to be assaulted with bright sunlight.  He groaned and closed them again.  Dimly he became aware that someone was pounding at the door and saying something, though their words were muffled and unintelligible. 

He didn’t want to get up.  The bed was comfortable, the covers warm, and it had been _so_ long since he’d had a decent night’s—

The memories of the previous day came crowding into his head all at once and he was suddenly _wide_ awake. 

Whoever was at the door was showing no signs of leaving anytime soon, so he got up, put on a shirt for decency’s sake, and went to the door to see what they wanted and possibly tell them to leave him alone. 

“—Attano?  I don’t want to bother you, but it’s noon and I thought I could show you the way to the dining room while I have a chance.”  There was a pause.  “But if you want to stay in, that’s fine.”

Corvo unlatched and opened the door.  The persistent voice belonged to a woman with wide blue eyes and brown hair that just brushed her shoulders.  She looked familiar, and Corvo struggled a moment to place her.

“Leonid?”

She smiled.  “The one and only.  Would you like—oh.”  She looked at his left hand, which was wrapped around the edge of the door.  “That’s a development.” 

Corvo glanced at his hand, wondering briefly what the development was.  Seeing the Mark emblazoned on his skin, he remembered the dream that wasn’t and the Outsider’s _gifts_. 

“Daud was going to offer you the arcane bond, but I don’t suppose you need it now,” Leonid said, contemplative.

Corvo tensed at Daud’s mention.  _Be civil_ , he told himself, and asked, “The what?”  It was a struggle to keep his voice level.

“It’s how we share his powers.  He calls it the arcane bond.”  She tugged off her glove and held up her left hand.  On it was the Outsider’s Mark, but grey instead of black.  “See?”

Her face fell when she saw his thunderous expression.  “Well, ah, if you want, I could show you to the dining room; you could get some breakfast, or lunch, really, at this point—or if you’d rather, you could stay here a while longer, it’s really up to you…” she trailed off, wringing her hands.

Corvo sighed internally and made an effort to school his expression into neutrality, taking pity on Leonid, who looked near tears—which was somewhat baffling. How did someone who cried at the threat of harsh words become an _assassin_ , of all things? 

But that was neither here nor there and he said, “I would like that,” taking care to keep his voice soft. 

She brightened, relieved.  “Follow me.”

Corvo put his coat on and suppressed a shudder when the Heart beat against him, snug in one of the pockets. 

And again, Corvo was led through the maze that was the Flooded District until they arrived at something that might have been a conference room, once. 

It was chaotic.  Tables and chairs of every description had been jammed in until there was hardly room to walk around them.  The sounds of cutlery, conversation, and the occasional shout filled the air as the Whalers ate.  The majority present were in unfamiliar grey jackets, though at each table there was at least one in the blue he was accustomed to. 

One grey-jacketed person wove through the crowd, a mug in each hand.  He was tall, lanky, had reddish brown hair, and could be no more than fifteen. 

All the ones in grey were _children_.

Corvo turned to demand of Leonid why there were _children_ here in this hazard of a district in the company of killers, but she had already moved off and was seated at a full table, over by the windows.  Aside from Leonid, he could make out Thomas, someone that might have been Rulfio, a short-haired, wildly gesticulating woman he hadn’t yet met, a bulky man whose back was to him, and a dark-skinned woman in a red coat.  They were all fanned out around Daud, who had accepted a mug from the kid and just sat there in the middle of it all, apparently content to let the sound and fury wash over him. 

Corvo was pleased to notice that Daud’s nose was swollen and an angry purple. 

It was petty, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself.  Daud’s crimes warranted far harsher punishment than a broken nose.  _Be civil,_ he reminded himself.  He was under no obligation to like Daud or the Whalers, but they were allies and his hosts.  He couldn’t verge into outright hostility.  _Cordial but distant_ would suffice. 

A line of Whalers carrying plates trailed out one door, so Corvo joined them, hoping they were queued up for food.  He felt a bit awkward, but he’d learned how to look like he knew what was going on even if he didn’t long ago.  If he could survive the imperial court at nineteen, he could handle a gaggle of rookie assassins at thirty-nine. 

His gamble paid off and he loaded a plate with hagfish, vegetables, bread, and a sprig of grapes before finding an empty chair, sitting down, and spending the next hour inhaling an tremendous amount of food.

* * *

Daud watched as Attano demolished another plate, showing no signs of slowing down.  Even the novices didn’t eat that much, except perhaps Rinaldo, who had once packed away an entire chicken by himself.   

“Daud,” Leonid said, leaning over the table. 

“Hm?” And there he got up again, apparently intent on eating them out of house and home.

“The Outsider Marked Lord Attano last night.”

“I’m not surprised.  He’s just the type.”  And he was—hurting and driven enough to become _interesting_.  Daud had come to hate that word, along with _fascinating_ , _captivating_ , _intriguing_ , _stimulating_ , and all synonyms.  “Have you seen him use it?”

“Not yet, but I didn’t give him cause to either.”

“It’s probably just as well that he has his own Mark,” Rulfio said.  “I doubt he would have accepted the arcane bond.”

Daud had to agree.  His nose still hurt. 

“I’m gonna go,” Quinn announced, abruptly standing up.  Kieron watched her leave, one eyebrow raised.  Billie snorted faintly but transversed away herself, leaving her plate for someone else to pick up. 

Daud checked the time.  Getting near one o’clock.  “I’ll need to speak with him regarding the Lord Regent.  Thomas, pull all our information about Burrows and his associates and leave it on my desk.” 

“Yes, sir.”  Thomas tugged Leonid closer and wrapped his arm around her, squeezing, before he too left. 

Keiron invariably sat with his chair tilted back on two legs, and he let himself fall forward with a bang.  “And I ought to go teach the darling children how to swing a sword without putting an eye out.  Do wish me luck.” He rose, affecting an air of long-suffering weariness. 

“Such a burden,” Leonid said, smiling slightly.  She turned her attention back to Daud.  “Do you want me to have a look around the Distillery District?”

“Not yet.”  He drank the last of the coffee Little Thomas brought.  “I don’t know when Attano’s going to see to Campbell and I don’t want to send him in with outdated information.  Keep searching for Delilah.  What district did you get to?”

“Old Port.  It’s a long shot, l know, but there are people hiding out there.  Delilah might be one of them.  I’ll take a couple of the older novices, it should be good practice for them.”

Daud grunted his assent and then Leonid was gone as well.  Only he, Rulfio, and Attano remained in the dining hall.  Daud got up and crossed the room to his table.

“Attano.”

He set down his fork and knife, looking up at Daud warily.  He said nothing. 

“I’d like to speak with you about some information I have on the Lord Regent.  My office is in the Chamber of Commerce, on the top floor.”

Eventually, Attano nodded, and then went back to his food.  Taking that as a clear dismissal, Daud left. 

Rulfio watched the exchange closely, munching grapes.  _That could’ve been worse_ , he thought, popping another one into his mouth.

* * *

Corvo found himself at something of an impasse.  He was _on_ the Chamber of Commerce, at least, if not strictly in it, or on the top floor.  There was only one route through the building, and he had followed it to this point.  He stood looking at an air duct.

He was agile, but he couldn’t jump _that_ high.

The Mark prickled slightly.  It had done that every so often, especially when he had forgotten about it again, as though to remind him it was there.  Given the Outsider’s personality, that might not be too far-fetched. 

He clenched his fist and blinked, landing lightly on the duct, then climbed in a window, walked through a room with an immense filing cabinet, and pushed open the glass double doors. 

Daud was already there, smoking again.  “Attano,” he said.  He gestured broadly at the scattered papers that littered the desk and floor.  “This is everything we have.”

It seemed extensive, Corvo had to give him that.  Of course, when your people could simply break in and take whatever they wanted, rightfully or no, it tended to make things easier.  _Be civil_.  “What do you know?”

“I didn’t act alone in killing the Empress.  There was a conspiracy to assassinate her, led by Burrows and the High Overseer with support from several nobles.  Our illustrious leader had been planning it for months.”  Any doubts Corvo had about potential loyalties to Burrows evaporated.  Daud sounded scathing, like he’d sooner kill the man than do another job for him.

“I figured as much,” Corvo said, bitter.  “He became Lord Regent entirely too quickly.”  And smiled too widely when Corvo was strapped down and in pain. 

“Only to protect Dunwall ‘in this time of crisis.’  Bastard,” Daud spat, and visibly collected himself.  “I think Campbell should be the first target.  Whenever I saw him, he carried a black book, kept everything important in it.”  His distaste was obvious.  Then he hesitated, an odd look for Dunwall’s most notorious assassin for hire.  “When I took Emily, I kept her for part of the day until I left her with—”

“Morgan and Custis Pendleton,” Corvo said venomously.  He glared at Daud, arms crossed, jaw clenched.  “And I assume you don’t know where she is now.”

“How do you—” Daud started to ask, but Corvo just held up his left hand in answer, wearing a look that said he’d like nothing more than for Daud to give him one more reason.

“No,” he admitted.  “I was never privy to that information.  But I think it’s likely Campbell wrote it down.  If we get that book, we have Emily’s location.”

Corvo looked down at the map of Dunwall on the floor, where Holger Square had been circled in red.  It seemed a fair shot.  Campbell had always been theatrical, enjoying spectacles.  He had probably gotten swept up in what he thought of as cloak-and-dagger intrigue and started acting the part.  Idiot. 

But there was something still bothering Corvo, to say the least.  “If you hate Burrows so much, why did you do it?”

_It_ needed no specification. 

“I had done jobs for him for years.  Nothing big.  Rivals, businesspeople, the like.  But he was spymaster for a reason,” Daud said quietly.  He paused for a long moment, and when he next spoke, his voice was raw.  “Eventually he figured out where our last hideout was.  Threatened to send in the Overseers.  I couldn’t allow that.”

“You were a tool,” Corvo said, looking steadily at Daud.

“I allowed myself to become one.”  Daud looked away first.

“When do I leave for Holger Square?” Corvo asked, and if Daud noticed he was deliberately changing the subject, he didn’t comment. 

“That’s up to Montgomery.”  At Corvo’s questioning look, he said, “Our medic.”

“I don’t need—”

“Attano, you spent five months in a prison that breaks ordinary men.  Emily does not need a rescue orchestrated by a father who dies in the attempt because he couldn’t be bothered to recover first.”

Corvo rounded on him, his whole body screaming _murder_.  “Where— _who_ —”

Daud held up his left hand.  “Same way you know about the Pendletons.  Wherever she is, she has to be safe.  Burrows is going to need her to reappear when it suits him, so he can have a—”

“—puppet empress,” they both said, though Corvo fairly groaned, rubbing his face. 

Daud pointed sharply with two fingers and the same redheaded kid from earlier popped out of the empty air.  Corvo wasn’t even surprised.

“Go see Montgomery,” he told Corvo, not unkindly.  “Take him.” 

“Yes, sir,” the kid said.  

He was terribly serious, Corvo thought as they walked along in silence, carrying himself very upright with a sense of purpose that would put most of the City Watch to shame.  Although his gangly frame and too-short sleeves somewhat ruined the effect, along with the fact that he didn’t seem to quite know what to do with his legs, like he had just gone through a drastic growth spurt.  Corvo knew the feeling. 

“What’s your name?”

The kid glanced back at Corvo.  “Thomas.  Almost everyone calls me Little Thomas, to tell me apart from the other one.” 

Corvo nodded, thinking _little_ wouldn’t be an accurate nickname for much longer. 

“How old are you?” Corvo asked, wondering just how young Daud was willing to take someone in.

“Thirteen, sir.”

Corvo’s eyebrows rose.  Thirteen, and that tall already? 

“Here we are, sir,” Thomas said, pushing open a door to an infirmary.  It was a bit makeshift, like everything else the Whalers had, but clean and organized.  It smelled of antiseptic. 

“Dr. Mont _gomery_ ,” Thomas bellowed.  “Lord Attano is here.”

“Thomas, I’ve told you, there’s no need to shout,” a woman said, emerging from a back room.  “Right, pick a bed, and I’ll be with you in just a moment.  Shoo, dear,” she told Thomas, tying back her hair.  She vanished into the back room.

Corvo made his way to one of the beds, easing his jacket off his shoulders, anticipating the inevitable.

“And do undress!”

There it was.  Corvo sat there in naught but his underwear, cursing the Dunwall cold and hoping Dr. Montgomery would hurry. 

“In the interest of full disclosure,” she said, reappearing, “I never completed my degree.”

Corvo made an interesting face, and she hurried to add, “I ran out of money and had to withdraw from the Academy several weeks before finishing my last semester.  You’re in good hands.  Now, let’s get this over with, it’s dreadfully chilly.”  She adjusted the lapels of her jacket.  “It was all etiquette from that point anyway.”

Corvo quietly bore the indignity of a thorough medical exam, truly registering the condition of his body for the first time.  He’d grown thinner, skinny even.  He could’ve counted his ribs if he felt so inclined.  Montgomery shifted his arm to inspect a half-healed burn, and the contrast of her deep brown hands against his own skin made him realize just how pale he’d become.  Pasty. 

Burrows and Campbell had been limited by two things during his stay in Coldridge, and for that he was—not glad, nor relieved, but something like that, for he could’ve been in much worse shape.

Firstly: their unwillingness to touch him meant they were bound not by their imaginations, but by the capabilities of the torturer.  Since he seemed to have the intellect of a heavily-concussed plague rat, they’d had to keep it simple.  Burning, bludgeoning, tearing out the odd fingernail. 

Secondly: he had to make a pretty corpse.  Executions always had an audience, and the man accused of murdering Jessamine would have the most high-profile spectators in the Isles.  He had to be recognizable, so everyone could cheer when his head hit the dirt. 

He’d tried to force himself to get used to that idea—it had seemed a foregone conclusion—but even now, well away from Coldridge and its awful room, it made panic rise in his chest.  His hands started to shake, so he fisted them in the sheets, taking deep, slow breaths. 

Montgomery noticed, and touched his hand very lightly with just her fingertips.  “Some of these need bandages.  I’ll be back in a moment.”

Her voice was soft, and as much as Corvo hated being treated like he was fragile, he was equally grateful.  He hung his head, closed his eyes.  He was alright.  He was hidden from prying eyes.  He was okay. 

Once he was dotted here and there with gauze and a thick, sharp-smelling ointment, Montgomery stood back and declared her job done. 

Corvo started pulling his clothes back on, and she said, “Now, the Marked tend to heal faster than most, but give yourself two or three weeks and see how you feel before taking to the rooftops.  Rest, eat, exercise if you feel up to it.  You’re free to go.”

“Thank you,” Corvo said.

She waved it off.  “No thanks necessary.  Take care of yourself.”

Two weeks, then.  That wasn’t so long.

* * *

In an old pub by the river, three men argued late into the night.  One kept sipping from a flask, growing steadily more drunk.  Another beat his fist against his desk.  The third hurled insults from behind a mask of deceptive calm.  Eventually, their argument became a fight, and they went their separate ways in the early hours of the morning.  It would be some time before they could be civil again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you all know, updates might have to come slower for a while, I've been sooo busy lately and haven't been able to write very much.
> 
> I hope you liked!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this is not slowing down, but I'm still not nuts about this chapter even though I've given it some major adjustments. I've got to post it so I stop touching it and move on to more important stuff like writing more chapters.
> 
> Just a heads-up, there's some injury in this chapter and my friend said it was gross. It's pretty clear where that comes in so if you want, you can just skip to the asterisk and start reading again from there, there's a little summary at the end.

Two weeks was a very long time. 

Corvo had absolutely nothing to do for the first time in twenty years, and he hated it.  The first couple of days were pleasant enough, a welcome respite in which he acknowledged that no, he wasn’t in fighting shape anymore.  But he could feel his strength returning day by day, and soon he was possessed by a restless energy and took to prowling, a bored specter making laps around the district. 

It was maddening, but at least he was learning where everything was. 

After four days, he’d put together a reasonable mental map of the place, including the waterfront, his apartment building, the novices’ dormitories, the dining hall, Daud’s office, the archives, the infirmary, the shooting range, and a small training room.  The novices in there had been spooked by his presence though, so he hadn’t gone back.

If the Whalers disapproved of his wanderings, they didn’t tell him so.

The Mark kept prickling at times, but after he used it to cross a gap and nearly sent himself plunging down fifty feet into the floodwaters, he was hesitant to do so again.  If that meant the Outsider would pester him, so be it. 

On the fifth day, the weather turned sour, the clouds spitting down a miserable mix of rain and sleet.  Montgomery had forbidden the Whalers from staying out in it too long, for fear they would catch their deaths of pneumonia. 

So instead of exploring, Corvo went to the archives.  He was flipping through _Birds of Morley_ , wondering why that was in the collection, when Leonid found him. 

“Oh there you are, I’ve been looking for you.  Since the weather’s so awful, we’re all staying in and sparring.  Would you like to come?  Everyone will be there, it’ll be fun.”

Corvo didn’t really want to, but she looked so hopeful he didn’t have the heart to tell her no.  He nodded, closing the book and jamming it back into the shelf. 

Leonid smiled.  “Follow me.”

As they walked, she chattered about some plan to renovate the novices’ dormitories, which were water-damaged—though what qualified a building in the Flooded District as “water-damaged,” she didn’t say.

The Heart pulsed gently before speaking.  _She has taken only one life, years ago_ , she said, sounding surprised _.  It weighs heavily on her still_.  Corvo pressed his hand to his pocket to acknowledge her. 

They put their hoods up and darted through the sleet toward one of the buildings close to the Chamber of Commerce.  Inside, the level of noise gradually increased as they went upstairs, and when Leonid opened the door, they were met with absolute cacophony. 

She hadn’t exaggerated.  Everyone really was there, having a grand time.  A dense crowd ringed an arena, where two Whalers were fighting.  The spectators cheered them on, shouting encouragement, betting, arguing.  A few were even playing cards in the corners.  Daud stood on the other side of the room, occasionally bellowing instruction around the cigarette clenched between his teeth.  The woman with the red coat was standing beside him, looking faintly disdainful. 

A faint miasma of smoke floated around the ceiling, and Corvo fought back the urge to cough.

One of the fighters—the short-haired woman he always saw at breakfast—yelled, “ _C’mon_ asshole, you’re not fighting Lady Boyle!”

Her opponent, a slim man with very shiny black hair, just grinned and lunged for her.  They met in the middle, swords ringing as they hacked at each other.  There was no elegance—it was more akin to a brawl than a practice bout with the City Watch.  They fought like their lives were on the line, neither one able to gain the upper hand. 

Their blades locked, but the woman twisted away, bringing her sword down to playfully jab at her opponent’s crotch.  He evaded her at the last moment, blinking straight backwards. 

“ _That_ ,” he shouted, red-faced, is _not necessary!_ ”

She just cackled.

“Quinn, cut it out.”  Daud looked unimpressed with her tactical choices.

“Those two shouldn’t spar,” Leonid muttered beside Corvo.  “They know each other too well.”

Just then, both moved to block a swing neither made, their swords whipping past each other without making contact.

“See?” She shook her head, laughing to herself.

The man feinted left, swung right, and blinked up behind Quinn to put her in a cheerful headlock. 

“Hey! Hey—choffer! Stop it!”

“Arden wins!” Rulfio yelled, and he let her go. 

“Yeah, yeah.  Fucker,” she said without any real bite, straightening her clothes.  She started to walk toward Corvo and Leonid, but when she caught sight of him, she went pale and melted into the crowd.  He turned to ask what that was about, but Leonid had moved off and was talking to someone else.

Daud moved into the ring, demonstrating something.  Corvo couldn’t see exactly what they were doing, but Arden looked as though he’d had a revelation.  Daud clapped him on the shoulder and he stumbled a bit, joining everyone else along the walls.

“Who’s next?” Rulfio called out, and another group started to spar.  Evidently shouted pointers weren’t enough this time, because Daud actually joined in, teaching all the while, somehow keeping his cigarette from falling to the floor.

Corvo couldn’t see everything, close the wall as he was, but he didn’t entirely care and was feeling a bit overwhelmed.  For a group so known for its stealth, the Whalers were _loud_.  They doubled in volume when match ended, the victor throwing her hands in the air, grinning past a split lip.

Leonid reappeared at his side and nudged him with her elbow.  “Come on Lord Attano, let’s go.”

Corvo looked her over.  She was about a foot shorter and probably fifty pounds lighter than him.  She bounced on the balls of her feet, excited.  He sighed internally and nodded.

“ _Excellent_.  Just be nice,” she said.  

He took off his coat, someone passed him a sword, and they walked to the middle of the ring.  They started to circle each other, swords raised defensively.  Leonid made the first move, slashing, but Corvo blocked her easily.  He jabbed; she blinked a foot to the left and tried to slip past his guard and get to his midsection.  He sidestepped and parried.  They kept on that way, neither really trying to win, just feeling each other out, assessing strengths and weaknesses. 

The longer they sparred, the better Corvo felt, dormant muscle memory reawakening.  The familiar strain was going to sneak up on him far too soon and leave him painfully sore, he could already tell—but it would be a good ache.

Without even realizing it, he had begun to enjoy himself, meeting Leonid’s brilliant smile as they traded a blistering volley of blows. 

If it wouldn’t have resulted in an immediate loss and at least one very painful bruise, Corvo could’ve thrown his head back and laughed.

* * *

Daud was surprised when Attano stepped into the ring, and more surprised still when he shed the sullen look he’d been wearing since he walked in. 

He settled in to watch.  It was a good match.  Leonid was smaller, slightly faster, but Attano had greater reach and more power behind his swings.  He was clearly more used to using a sword—Leonid hardly needed it, she was never seen—but she was in better condition. 

Yet something wasn’t quite right. 

Attano was holding his own, but Leonid was consistently gaining ground.  He wasn’t making mistakes, per se—his form was excellent and only slightly rusty, but curiously rough-edged.  Daud had no complaints though, he was clearly an incredible fighter, even now.  It was only when Leonid transversed right into Attano’s space, forcing him to dodge and leave himself off-balance, that he realized what was missing. 

Attano wasn’t using his Mark. 

He and Leonid hadn’t somehow been wrong, Daud could see it right there on his hand, bold as brass.  But where her borrowed Mark flared blue, Attano’s remained stubbornly black. 

Why wasn’t he using it?

Daud supposed he might not have figured out _how_ , the thing didn’t exactly come with a manual—but that couldn’t be right.  When Daud had first been Marked all those years ago, the Outsider had made him transverse around half the Void in between listening to his soliloquies.  It stood to reason he’d do the same to Attano.  Besides, getting to his office through the door required getting on top of that duct, no two ways around it.  And unless the bodyguard was unnaturally good at jumping, he’d had to transverse to get to the office. 

Daud frowned. 

He watched Attano more closely.  Once, just once, he thought he saw his hand start to close into a fist, but just as soon as it started, the fingers splayed out again, too wide to be unintentional. 

It might have been a fluke.  Or Attano might have been actively avoiding using his Mark.

That didn’t make _any_ sense.

Leonid made a mistake—leaving her side vulnerable, she struggled with that constantly—tipping the scales in Attano’s favor.  But he didn’t press the advantage; it looked like he actually gave her time to recover before striking again. 

What in the _Void?_

In a flurry of movement, Leonid and Attano ended up pressed close, his sword against her throat, hers pointed at his middle.  Mutually assured destruction.  Both were grinning, panting.  A cry of _tie!_ went up, and they parted. 

Daud stepped over to Leonid to give her the same quick lecture as always, only half paying attention to himself.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thomas give Attano a handkerchief to wipe his face with.

Leonid kept nodding in agreement.  “I’ll practice.”

“See that you do.  Otherwise, you did well.”

She smiled, and said something, but Daud was back to watching Attano, still talking to Thomas. 

Then he made a decision.  It was probably bad and would probably get him bruised and battered or worse, but he’d been presented with a mystery and couldn’t let that stand.  He took Leonid’s sword, ignoring her confused _Daud?_   She would figure it out. 

“Attano,” he said, as neutrally as he could manage.

The smile slid off his face like it had never been there at all, and he went cold and distant again, a healthier-looking reflection of the ragged man from the sewers.

Daud raised his sword, but Attano shook his head, trying to push back into the crowd.  Leonid said something to him, and he scowled, a muscle at his jaw jumping.  She shrank in on herself a bit, and Attano sighed, seeming to make a decision. 

He turned, looking grim, and walked to the middle of the ring.  He and Daud started to circle each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Then Attano attacked him with a vicious intensity that Daud threw right back at him.  He began transversing immediately, trying to force Attano into doing the same to keep up.  And he _refused_.  He performed admirably, but constantly turning this way and that left holes in his guard that Daud would have exploited ruthlessly had he been trying to do anything other than goad Attano into using his damned Mark. 

And he was _still_ fighting like some paragon of virtue, _still_ not doing anything more than keeping pace.  Daud tried to knock his legs out from under him, but he moved with it and counterattacked.

“Strike like you mean it!” Daud snarled.  He was working himself into a proper mood now, unable to understand why Attano was holding back, why he wasn’t using everything at his disposal the way he had once before. 

Attano’s face twisted into a grimace.  There it was, he was putting some real effort into it now.  Blocking his blows rattled Daud’s whole arm. 

“Use your Mark!  Think of where you want to be and _move!_ ”  It briefly occurred to Daud that Attano’s transversal might not work the same way as his, but he dismissed the thought.  He couldn’t afford to contemplate the finer points of the Mark’s function now. 

Daud lost track of time, unable to think beyond the next few seconds.  His hand tingled and burned and started to go numb.  He and Attano were both pouring sweat. 

But in the back of his mind, he ran the calculations, weighing strengths and weaknesses.  Attano might be a few hairs taller, and nimble, but Daud was broad, wrapped in heavy muscle.  He could command a brute force Attano could not at the moment. 

That was an idea. 

He shoved the bodyguard away from him, retreating to the opposite side of the ring.  He allowed himself two breaths to center himself, then lifted his hand and tethered him, dragging him closer.  He resisted, of course he did— _come on, transverse, damnit_ —and when he was only a few feet away Daud dropped him and charged.  He rammed him with his right shoulder, driving him back toward the wall.  Attano wheezed and swore, the air leaving him in a rush. 

He pounded his left fist against Daud’s ribs once, twice, three times.  That was going to leave a big damn bruise, but Daud didn’t really care.  Finally, _finally_ he was getting somewhere.  Here was the back-alley fighter he’d suspected was there all along, hidden under a veneer of courtly polish.  He slackened his grip on Attano’s shirtfront, hoping he’d take the bait. 

And he did.

There was a blue flash, and Daud was holding the empty air.  He whipped around, pissed off and elated in equal measure.  Attano stood across the ring, panting, absolutely livid.  Another flash, and he was right in front of Daud, his sword coming down, down, carving a burning line across Daud’s side. 

He went to his knees, feeling warmth spread across his skin.  Attano just stood above him, watching the blood stain his shirt. 

There was complete and utter silence. 

Attano tossed his sword down with a clatter, grabbed his coat, and stormed out, slamming the door behind himself.

Daud gritted his teeth and stood, pressing his hand against the long cut.  The assembled Whalers stared, shocked.  Rulfio took a half step forward, as though to offer assistance, but he halted him with a glare. 

“As you were,” he growled.  He picked up his jacket, draped it over one shoulder, and walked out on legs that were more unsteady than he’d like.  He’d pushed himself too hard, too fast. 

The cut burned.  _That’s fair_ , he thought.  He deserved that. 

It was bleeding dramatically though, so he hauled himself to the infirmary. 

“Montgomery,” he said, pushing open the door.  She came out of her little storage room and office, looking curious, but at the sight of him her mouth fell open.

“What did you _do?_ ”

He started to answer, but she waved him off.  “Never mind, that can wait.  Sit.”  She went back to gather supplies, rattling and clattering around.

Daud sat heavily on one of the beds, unbuttoning his shirt.  Now that the adrenaline was leaving him, it was starting to _hurt_.  The blood had made a gooey crust around the injury and pulled at it when he peeled his shirt off.  He hissed. 

“Are you all right?” Montgomery called. 

“Fine.”

“Hmm.  Somehow, I doubt that,” she said, reappearing laden with the tools of her trade.  “On your other side, I suppose, unless that’s injured as well.”

It was, just not as severely, so Daud settled down, grunting when his ribs had to bear his weight.  Montgomery adjusted his arm and went to work with a stinging antiseptic, cleaning the skin around the gash. 

“So,” she said, discarding a reddened wad of gauze and fetching a clean one, “what happened?”

“Attano,” he said, clenching his teeth against another wave of pain.  Montgomery paused, looking down at him in concern.

“It was my fault.  Shouldn’t’ve pushed him.”  Daud closed his eyes.

“And whose idea was it to fight in the first place, hm?”

“Mine.”

She sighed.  “I see.  And what in all the Isles possessed you to do that?”

“He wasn’t—” Montgomery did _something_ , and he had to stop to gasp. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she said.  “Keep going.”

“Wasn’t using his Mark,” he finished. 

“And you thought you’d find out why.”  He nodded.  “Daud, I could have told you that wouldn’t go well.”

He only grunted. 

“Did it work?”

He did not reply. 

Montgomery sighed and worked in silence for a few more minutes, piling gauze on a tray. 

“Outsider’s eyes, this is worse than I thought,” she said as she stood up, sounding worried.  “Let me get the local.”

“No, it’s—”

“Expensive, yes, but you don’t want me stitching you up without it, trust me.  I can see everything you have in there.”

Her tone brooked no argument, so he relaxed as much as he could, resigned. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll save a _little_ , only give you a partial dose.  You’ll still feel it, but you won’t be coming off the bed.” 

“Fine.”  He felt the pinprick bite of the needle a few times, and then blessed numbness spread across him, stretching from his underarm to his hip.  Montgomery wiped at him a while longer, then started stitching.  He almost could’ve drifted off like that, worn out from earlier, but for the tug of the thread through his skin.  Montgomery started humming as she often did, working with painstaking slowness. 

Finally, she stopped.  “Alright, up you get.”

Daud eased himself upright.  He tried to take a deep breath as an experiment but had to stop short when pain lanced up both his sides. 

“Were you aware,” Montgomery said flatly, “that you have a truly spectacular bruise?”

Daud glanced down at the ribs Attano pummeled.  A dark splotch had bloomed into existence, all lurid purples.  “Huh,” he said.

“Whatever am I going to do with you?”  Montgomery sat on the bed by his other side, prodding lightly at the edges of the bruise.  She started to work her way inwards, pressing harder, as she asked, “Any point tenderness?”

At that exact moment, she mashed down on a spot that _hurt_ , and Daud yelped. 

“Cracked,” she pronounced.  Again, she moved and sat down on the other side of him.  “Alright, lift your arm a bit—not that high.”  She brought out one of her smelly ointments and started to smear him with it.  “Don’t raise your arm above your shoulder until I take the stitches out.”

 Daud stared at the pile of bloody gauze as Montgomery bandaged him.  “Don’t know what to do,” he said absently.

“What?”

“Don’t know what to do,” he repeated, louder.  “With Attano."

Montgomery hummed.  “What do you want to do?”

Daud thought.  “Help him.  Bring Emily back.  End the Lord Regent.  Find Delilah.” 

“Well, working on his abilities isn’t a bad place to start.  You just went about it entirely wrong.”  Daud snorted.  “In a day or two, give him a rune or bonecharm or something and politely point out that you noticed he isn’t using the Mark.  Then ask, _nicely_ , if he would appreciate any insight.  If he doesn’t, say you understand and leave.  Simple as that.”

“I’m not trying to _court_ him,” Daud said, pinking. 

“No, you’re not,” Montgomery said, almost pitying.  “You’re after something much harder to gain than affection.”

* * *

One evening, the bulb in Corvo’s desk lamp had gone out while Captain Curnow was giving an important report.  He’d taken the spent one out, fished around in the drawer for a new one, and tried to replace it, but he was also trying to pay attention to Geoff—it really had been important—and had distractedly touched his fingers to the metal base of the bulb with it partially screwed in.  He had also forgotten to turn the lamp off, and a strange tingling numbness raced up his arm to the elbow before he could pull away.  He’d sworn and flapped his hand about to dispel the sensation.  Geoff asked if he was alright, Corvo said he was, and they continued going over the report.

Using the Mark felt like touching the light bulb. 

As before, he shook his hand, but it did nothing.  The pins-and-needles sensation was spreading outward from the Mark itself, and no amount of jostling would dislodge it. 

Corvo stomped his way through the district, just moving until he could stand to stop.  He blinked this way and that until he got to the Greaves refinery, and wound up the stairs, looking for some high place. 

He found it at the building’s balcony.  From there, he could see most of the district.  He paced back and forth before sitting down with a bump, still shaking with anger. 

Daud had no right to try to teach him like he was some miscreant picked up off the street.  _None_.  Had it not been for Daud, he wouldn’t even be here in the first place.  He would be home, in the Tower, probably drawing with Emily in the study while Jess watched, sipping tea and doing paperwork. 

Corvo ran his hands through his hair, pulling it.  _Jess_.  _Emily_.

He should be out looking for her, not holed up here beating up assassins.  Emily might be alone, she might be scared, she might need him, and he—he had to clamp down on that train of thought right there.  Speculation would get him nowhere.  It was for his and her own good both that he stay put and recover at least a little while longer. 

Because, as much as he loathed to admit it, Daud was right.  He had to be in good condition to rescue Emily properly. 

He let go of his hair and looked at his hands.  He hadn’t known the sword was sharp.  He’d meant to hit Daud, make him hurt for goading him like that, and had been surprised by the sudden flow of blood. 

And Daud hadn’t resisted him, again.  A few days ago, Corvo would have said there was no damned way that would happen, that the Knife of Dunwall would never take being bested lying down. 

Outsider help him, he was beginning to understand the full situation, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. 

He looked out over the district.  The sleet had let up and late afternoon sun colored everything golden, glittering off the damp roof tiles.  The clouds were even more spectacular, enormous and fluffy and a brilliant orange.  It was a sight few were able to enjoy, stuck down on the ground as they were, and Corvo had to admit it was beautiful despite his black mood. 

It almost looked like nothing had gone wrong, like there was no plague, no Lord Regent, no curfew, and no quarantine. 

Corvo let himself enjoy it, turning his face to the sun and drinking it in.  Perhaps he could take Emily up on one of the buildings and show her the view soon.  She would like it. 

But to do that, he still needed Daud.  He frowned. 

The whole situation just wasn’t going to _work_. 

He reached into his coat pocket and held the Heart in both hands.  “What can you tell me, my love?” he whispered.

The Heart beat softly against his fingers, and she spoke.  _The river rushed in when the barrier broke.  A whole district went dark_.  She paused.  _Not so long ago, Dunwall was a proud city._

“And what about Daud?”

_Am I to forgive him for what he did?_

“No.  Not unless you want to.”  He would never ask that of Jess’s spirit, certainly not when he couldn’t bring himself to do the same.

 _His hands do violence,_ the Heart finally murmured.  _But there is a different dream in his heart._  

Corvo closed his eyes and sighed.  Yes, the true shape of things was starting to come clear. 

_I am so cold._

“I know, darling,” he said, tucking the Heart back into an inside pocket, snug against his own chest.  He didn’t know if that would help keep her warm, but he had to try.  It was the very least he could do. 

He stood, aching a bit from sitting on the cold metal grating.  He inhaled once, deeply, and let the breath out slowly through his nose. 

Something had to give, but he had an idea of what to do.

* * *

Daud creaked up the stairs to his room, careful to not pull any of his many, many stitches again.  He tugged the key off his belt and, kneeling to avoid bending at the middle, unlocked his trunk.  There, under a pile of shirts, wrapped in a pair of pants, and bundled in some socks, was a rune.  He had no need of the thing and had stuffed under his clothes, so it wouldn’t keep him awake at night with its song. 

He might not have any use of it, but he knew someone that did. 

Daud weighed it in his hand.  It was a smaller one, not one of the great hefty things he’d found from time to time.  It would do nicely.  He braced himself on the edge of the trunk and straightened. 

There was really nothing in the world to remind a person of his midsection’s importance, thought Daud, as a sharp decrease in his ability to use it normally.  Every movement seemed to aggravate his ribs or his stitches. 

Going up the stairs to Attano’s apartment left him winded— _winded_ —just because he couldn’t figure out how to take a full breath without something hurting.  He leaned against a wall to wait until he wasn’t huffing like an overworked horse before knocking. 

The light was buzzing irritatingly, so he glared at it and in doing so, noticed a moldy patch on the ceiling.  It looked like a health hazard.  As he looked, a tickle kept building in the back of his throat until he was forced to cough.

Oh, that was _awful_. 

When he was done, he groaned and closed his eyes, cursing his past self for many things—his idiotic decision three days earlier, listening to Montgomery, and thinking this excursion was a good idea. 

But he’d gotten this far and refused to leave without completing his task.  So, he levered himself off the wall and knocked. 

Attano didn’t answer immediately, and Daud wondered if he was knocking at an empty apartment like an idiot, but then a floorboard creaked, and the door swung wide. 

“Yes?” Attano said, his expression unexpectedly open. 

Daud thrust the rune at him.  “Thought this could be useful.”

Attano accepted it, and it disintegrated a moment later.  He dusted his hands off on his pant legs.  “Thank you.” 

Daud opened his mouth to try to say something, but stopped, flummoxed.  _Thank you?_ He again tried to string words together, but again failed, caught wrong-footed.

Attano spared him from making an utter fool of himself by saying, “Give me another week and we can deal with Campbell.”

Daud nodded.  _We?_

Attano shut the door with a click, and he turned on his heel and gingerly made his way down the stairs.

Very well then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Daud goes to the infirmary and Montgomery fixes him up. They discuss how Daud can get back on Corvo's good(ish) side and Montgomery suggests giving him a peace offering and politely offering to provide insight on the Mark. 
> 
> FUN STORY Corvo's light bulb incident was based on real events. Don't try to do anything with electrical outlets in the dark.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been told working on an engine is one of the most infuriating things a person can do.

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” Rulfio growled.  There was a thunk, and he slapped his open palm against the hull of the Whalers’ boat. 

“What’s wrong with it?”  Arden bent nearly double to look, hands on his knees. 

“It’s thirty years old and we bought it third-hand on the black market.  ‘What isn’t wrong with it’ would be a better question.”

Corvo stopped fiddling with his wristbow and looked up sharply.  “Will it run?”

If it wouldn’t, if they had to go on foot, it would take them the better part of the night to get there.  Most of the Overseers slept in Holger Square’s barracks and woke up at absolutely unreasonable hours, they would undoubtedly be moving by four a.m., the regular patrols supplemented by others just going about their mornings.  They would have to be careful, and if they were seen—

“It should.  In another half hour.”  _Thank the stars_.  Another alarming sound echoed out of the engine compartment.  “Fucking _shit_.”

Arden straightened, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.  “Good luck with that.”  He puffed one to life and started waving it around.  “Where’s Billie at?  I thought she wanted to come.”

“She and Leonid are already there.”  Rulfio started feeling about on the dock, and Daud passed him the socket wrench, sparing it from a watery grave. 

“Honestly, she’s been vanishing enough lately I don’t ever know where she is anymore.  I’ve given up.”  Arden blew smoke over everyone’s heads.  “I may as well go on the rooftops and shout _oh Billie_ and hope she hears for all the good looking for her does.”

“Who’s Billie?”

“My second.”  Daud passed Rulfio the pliers.  “She’s the one with the red jacket.”

Corvo nodded slowly.  No wonder she always seemed so aloof. 

“Could it be the transmission?” Arden pondered.

“No, if it was the transmission, it wouldn’t move.  Damn thing won’t even start,” Rulfio grunted, hand deep in the boat.

“What about a head gasket?”

“No.”

“Could it be the—the,” he snapped his fingers, searching for the right words, “ _intake manifold?_ ”

“Arden,” Daud said in warning, just as Rulfio turned around and snapped, “Has anyone ever told you you’re a fucking dumbass?”

He had the decency to look abashed.  “Once or twice.”

Rulfio rolled his eyes and went back to work on the engine with a vengeance.  Daud shook his head and went back to handing him tools.

“Sorry, Rulf.”

He sighed.  “It’s fine.  Could you put this on the shorter arm?” He passed the wrench to Daud.  “I’m almost certain it’s the spark plugs.  It could be the filter, but I replaced that not long ago, so that shouldn’t be it.  And normally that wouldn’t be a big deal,” he said, and something clanged, “but some idiot retrofitted this with the wrong kind of motor and made it very, _very_ difficult to deal with.  _There_ it goes.”  He held up a part that was pitch-black with grime.  “There’s our problem.” 

“What is it?”  Arden leaned closer.

“A disgusting spark plug.  I’ll change the rest out and you should be good to go.” 

It started to rain as Rulfio finished working on the boat, the moon vanishing at times behind the scudding clouds.  Corvo put his hood up, half-wishing he had a mask to keep his face dry.  Alas, he hadn’t grabbed one when he had the opportunity. 

“Done.  Finally.”  Rulfio rocked back on his heels and began to pack up his tools.  “If anything _else_ breaks, summon me.  Good luck.” 

“Wait, you’re not coming with us?”  Arden looked alarmed. 

“No, I’m going to spend some time with Rinaldo.  My younger brother,” he said, for Corvo’s benefit.  “I’ve hardly talked to him lately.” 

Corvo picked up on the undercurrent of sadness in his voice and acutely understood the feeling.  Jess was easily the busiest woman in the Isles, and even her Royal Protector wasn’t always able to snatch a moment alone with her or Emily. 

Rulfio left them, and Corvo and Daud climbed into the skiff.  Arden kept staring at it like it was full of plague rats until Daud told him, “Just get in the damn boat.”

Somewhere in the middle of the Wrenhaven, after it showed no sign of imminent mechanical failure, he recovered his good spirits.  “I could sing us a sea shanty.”

_“No.”_

Corvo studied Daud, looking for signs of pain, but if he was hurting, he was doing a good job of hiding it.  Montgomery had been right—a point had come when he couldn’t be kept from going out, discomfort be damned. 

“They should be above Bitterleaf Almshouse,” Daud said, steering the boat to a stop.  Arden donned his mask and they all climbed onto the bank. 

A bridge arced over part of the river, only to end abruptly not even halfway across, and a trio of guardsmen stood atop it, heaving dead plague victims into a waiting barge.  They laughed as they worked, rough and loud and crass.  Corvo tightened his grip on his sword, stomach turning.  The City Watch had gone to the hounds.

Several wrapped pallets littered the bank.  Corvo crouched behind one, Arden and Daud behind another, out of sight.  Corvo started leaning to check if anyone happened to be about, only to notice Daud looking very intently at the pallet itself, nose practically jammed into it, as though he could unravel the mysteries of the universe by examining the cloth weave.  Then he tapped Arden on the arm and pointed ahead of himself. 

Arden understood, and stole ahead, only to return a few moments later with an unconscious Lower Guard slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  He dumped the man on the ground and again hurried away. 

Daud glanced at Corvo, and he had to muffle an audible reaction because Daud’s eyes were the same perfect, complete black as the Outsider’s.  The effect faded after a moment, looking like tar running away under the skin in rivulets.  Daud jerked his head— _come on_ —and crept off.  As much as Corvo had resolutely decided to not be surprised at anything any Whaler did at any given moment, he had to give himself a second to wonder what in the _world_ that had been before following. 

They had to make a short, nerve-wracking trip across the open street before blinking up, up, up, to an open doorway above the almshouse.  Only Leonid waited inside, looking disgruntled, turning her mask in her hands. 

“Daud, Lord Attano,” she said, standing, just as a rush of displaced air heralded the arrival of another Whaler and Billie appeared right in front of Leonid, interrupting her with her own, “Daud.”  Leonid scowled at Billie’s back and pointedly stepped around her, so they stood side-by-side.

Corvo wondered what their issue was.  While he hadn’t known Leonid very long, he hadn’t yet seen her show something so close to blatant dislike for anyone.  Billie was wearing her mask, so he had no way of knowing if the feeling was mutual.  Judging by body language alone, he guessed it was.

“Report.”

Billie launched into it almost before Daud was done speaking, prompting another dirty look from Leonid.  “City Watch set up two walls of light on Clavering, but the guards are too busy frying rats to pay attention to anything.  It would be easy to get through them.” 

Billie didn’t have to explain what _through them_ meant to her. 

“Or,” Leonid cut in, “we could go around.  There are back alleys by Bottle Street; we could avoid the Watch entirely.  I was able to go over one of the walls of light earlier and get past it that way, but I don’t think we should try that now.”

“Why?”

“It’s set into an archway with a copper roof.  It’s steep, and with the rain…”  She trailed off, grimacing.

“Hmm.”  Daud turned to Corvo, arms crossed.  “How do you want to do it?”

Corvo paused, the question unexpected.  Everyone was looking at him, waiting for his response, and he started to flounder, having not yet made a plan beyond _don’t get caught._

“You’ve never worked with a team, have you?” 

Corvo almost snapped at him, but Daud didn’t seem to be judging him, just making an observation.  _Be polite_ , he told himself. 

 “No,” he said.  And he hadn’t, not in years—the nature of his position required him to be a one-man army, Jess’s last line of defense.  Though that didn’t mean he had no preference on how everyone else did things.  “But I think we should take the side streets.”

Daud nodded.  “Move out.” 

Billie blinked away first, not sticking around long enough to see if there were any other instructions.  “She always _does_ that,” Leonid grumbled, putting on her mask.  She and Corvo stepped onto the balcony, and he noticed an old woman tossing trash into the street. 

“Garbage, garbage, garbage.”  She dropped a pan with a crash.  “All of it _garbage_.”

“Granny Rags,” Leonid said.  “I think she’s a witch.”

_Careful.  She treads with purpose.  And is not as frail as she seems,_ the Heart whispered.  He spared her one more glance and moved on. 

Arden careened ahead of everyone else, leaping from roof to balcony to air duct, climbing in and out of windows.  Corvo and Leonid, more cautious, kept pace with each other behind him, and Daud brought up the rear, moving suspiciously slowly. 

In their haste to outrun the plague, the Distillery District’s former residents had left behind many things.  Money, elixirs, even some jewelry.  Corvo pocketed it all.

All of a sudden, Arden halted, barely keeping himself from leaping and swaying dangerously.  He held up a hand and everyone else stopped.  There were shouts echoing along a street. 

“Let me _out!”_

Arden tilted his head and crept closer.  “Griff?” he said, half-incredulous. 

Daud caught up.  “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.”  More yells.  “I think Griff’s in trouble.” 

Daud pulled out his spyglass and passed it to Arden, who pushed his mask up and peered down at the street.  “Two of Slackjaw’s.  I can take them.”  And with that, he handed the spyglass back and jumped out the window. 

Corvo watched as he blinked to a wall separating a small elevated area from the rest of the street.  One thug started to walk around the corner, leaving the other to guard their captive.  Arden blinked up behind him, choked him out, and tipped him into the dumpster behind them in one fluid movement.  The other one, hearing the thump, turned to investigate.  When he came back around the corner, he didn’t even have time to yell before he was popped in the throat and summarily knocked unconscious. 

Arden went to work on the boarded-up doorway as everyone else dropped down.  “Griff, what’d you do to piss them off?” he said, splintering a board with a well-placed kick. 

An older man—presumably Griff—emerged.  “I wouldn’t sell to those two ingrates.  They wouldn’t pay.”

“That would do it.  Sir, meet Griff, black-market dealer and grumpiest son of a bitch in all the Isles,” Arden said, presenting him to Corvo.

_Pleased to meet you_ wouldn’t really describe his feelings, so he settled for, “Hello.”

Griff glowered, rather reinforcing Arden’s description, and asked him, “Are you buying?”

Arden turned back to him, hands on his hips.  “Is that any way to treat your savior?”  When Griff didn’t budge, he said, “’Course I’m buying.  You still take cigarettes?”

“What do you think?  Booze, cigarettes—”

“—and toilet paper, and you can trade for anything you need, I know.  What do you got?”

The Heart was beating quickly, and Corvo didn’t want to buy anything, so he left everyone to their shopping and entered the building Griff had been in.  On the second floor, he discovered a warm bit of bone that glowed and sang almost like a rune.  It quieted when he picked it up, the blue light dimming. 

He turned it over in his hand, pondering it, and the longer he listened, the more its song made sense, seeming to nudge at the back of his mind, whispering of stealth, quiet, shadows wrapping around him.  Rubbing the carving with his thumb one more time, he slipped it into his pocket and rejoined the others. 

“Alright, wrap it up,” Daud said. 

“Yes, boss.”  Arden crammed two canisters into his coat pockets and was off again like a shot.  Daud heaved a sigh, and everyone followed him.

Arden and Leonid led them to a street that cut under Clavering and drew up short when they saw what awaited them.  Two massive, teeming swarms of rats scurried about, oddly reminiscent of schools of fish.  Corvo looked at them in disgusted fascination.  He’d heard of the rat swarms but hadn’t known they could be _that_ big. 

“Knew I’d need this,” Arden said, pulling one of the canisters out of his coat.    He took careful aim and hurled it right into the center of them all.  It exploded with a pop and a crackle and when the smoke cleared, many of the rats lay dead.  “Little bastards.”  He threw another one. 

“What is that?”  

“Unrefined whale oil, chokedust,” Daud said.  “Doesn’t injure people but it’s useful.”  Corvo nodded, imagining all the possible applications. 

The alley led them back up and around to Clavering, and they perched above the guards, watching their movements.

* * *

Daud shifted, uncomfortable.  He should’ve listened to Montgomery and sent Thomas in his place.  He should’ve listened, but he hadn’t, so there he was, crouched on a bit of ductwork and hurting. 

Three watchmen wandered about below them, not paying a lick of attention to their surroundings, probably thinking they were safe behind both walls of light.  Excellent.  But there was no damned way Daud was going after anyone himself today, not when there were three (four, if he pushed his luck) others without cracked ribs that were perfectly capable of that themselves. 

Billie appeared beside him.  “That was quiet.”  She almost sounded disappointed. 

“That was the idea.  You three each pick one, and take him down on my signal,” he said.  The Whalers dispersed, and when they were in position, Daud tugged on the arcane bond—not strong enough to pull them to him, but just a touch.  Enough to feel. 

They dropped down as one and knocked out the guards, quickly and silently.  Daud allowed himself a moment of pride.  They had learned well.

“They’re good,” Attano murmured. 

Daud looked at him askance.  He was just watching Leonid struggle to hide her chosen guard, whose arm kept flopping out into the light.  He sounded sincere, his posture as relaxed as it had been all evening.  Without another word, he hopped off the ledge.  Daud followed him, again thinking the bodyguard was one of the most confounding people he’d ever met.

(The Outsider, being a deity of questionable humanity, was on a different level entirely and didn’t count, anyway.)

Holger Square’s stocks were empty, a small mercy.  They didn’t need the added complication of having to hurriedly silence some unfortunate soul hollering _assassins!_ before the better part of Dunwall’s Overseers came down on their heads.

Leonid got Attano’s attention and pointed to the ledge running about halfway up the building.  Clever.  Attano seemed to agree, nodding, and then they were off again, moving from ground level, to a railcar, to a streetlamp, to the wide, convenient ledge.  The Overseers moved about below them, completely oblivious. 

They’d even left the damn windows open.  Just to be safe, Daud pulled on the Void, and the world washed blue.  One yellow figure strolled along the hallway, and when he turned the corner, Daud motioned the others to go through.  Inside, they perched on the light fixtures like overgrown birds.

“Now what?” Attano whispered. 

“Spread out.  Arden, Leonid, look for Campbell on the lower floors.  Don’t disturb anyone if you can avoid it.” 

“Yes, sir.”  And they were gone.

“Campbell has a meeting room on this floor.”  Attano’s eyes glinted from under his hood. 

Daud waved a hand at him, palm up.  “Lead the way.”

Attano hopped down the hall on the light fixtures and took a left, then shimmied through the vent above the door and jumped down into the room.  Once Daud caught up to him, he was pulling a rune off a plaque above the fireplace.  The pair of them began poking around, looking for anything that would point them to the High Overseer.

Attano spoke up suddenly.  “What was that you did earlier?”

Daud glanced at him, thinking he was going to need to be a bit more specific.  “Hmm?”

“With your eyes.”

_Ah_.  “I call it void gaze.  It comes from the Mark, lets me see people through walls.” 

Attano drew his brows together.  “Do you think I can do it?”

Daud shrugged.  “I don’t know.”  He really didn’t, but given that Attano had taken at least two runes, he had to be getting close to something new.  “You’ll know if you feel it.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you’ve used enough runes, you’ll get new powers.  You can,” Daud sighed, struggling to find the words to describe the years-old memories, “ _feel_ it, and when you reach for whatever it is; it’s like muscle memory.  You don’t have to think about it.”

Attano studied the back of his left hand and crawled under the table to pick up fallen change.  “Daud,” he said, sticking his arm out, holding a small vial of clear glass.  “This was fastened under here.”

Daud took it.  It didn’t look that remarkable, just a tiny bottle with a little bit of liquid sloshing around inside, but if it had been stuck under a table in the middle of the High Overseer’s office, it had to be more special than that.  He pulled out the stopper and stuck his finger over the opening, collecting a bit of the stuff on his glove.  He tasted it, and it burned ferociously, making him cough (which was still just as dreadful as it had been a week and a half ago).

“Poison,” he said.  “Strong stuff.”  Attano stared at him, eyes wide, shaking his head slightly.  When Daud didn’t keel over and die on the spot, he asked, “Who do you think it was for?”

Daud shrugged.  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Boss.”  Arden came squirming through the vent and perched over the door.  “Boss, Leonid found Campbell and she thinks he’s coming here.  She’s following him and another Overseer.” 

He and Attano glanced at each other and transversed onto the bookshelf.  Daud had to grit his teeth and exhale slowly against the dull ache brought on from curling up.  They all waited in tense silence for several minutes until Campbell pushed the doors open, trailed by a skinny Overseer.  Leonid landed lightly behind them and transversed under the table before she was seen.

“I want you to bring up a Tyvian red when Curnow arrives.”  Campbell was still just as much of a pompous blowhard as he’d been nearly a year ago, still had a face remarkably like a wizened crabapple.  Daud ground his teeth. 

“Yes, High Overseer.”

“And make it a good vintage.  But _not_ the 1764, am I clear?”

“Yes, High Overseer.”

“Leave me.  I have business to see to.”

“Yes, High Overseer.”  The skinny fellow bowed and left.

Thinking himself alone, Campbell sighed gustily and started to pat the table’s underside, looking for the poison still in Daud’s hand.  “Where is it…” he muttered.  “If some imbecile’s taken it…”

Daud spotted motion in his periphery—Attano was shifting about, face hard, hands shaking, wound tighter than an eight-day clock.  He sprang into action, transversing behind Campbell to put him in a chokehold.  When he tried to cry out, Attano clamped his free hand over his nose and mouth with a wordless snarl.  He sagged, unconscious, and Attano let him drop with a thump.  Then he started turning out the man’s pockets, pulling out all sorts of things—a vial of Sokolov’s elixir, a folded note, even a crumpled pair of ladies’ underwear, which were frowned at and tossed to the side. 

Attano held out a small, creased black notebook.  “Is this it?” 

Daud nodded, unsure of what to say.  Attano tucked it into one of his pockets and sat there a moment, contemplative, one hand pressed to his chest.  Then he tightened his jaw, slung Campbell over his shoulder, and took off down the hallway without a word. 

Daud chased after him, ordering Arden and Leonid to keep a lookout.  His heart made an ungainly leap to his throat when he realized Attano was headed to the interrogation room, and he pushed himself to catch up, ignoring everything that hurt. 

Attano had Campbell in the chair, just finishing strapping him down with a coolly dispassionate air completely counter to the barely-restrained fury he’d radiated not five minutes earlier.  He stood back, examining his work.  Apparently finding it to his satisfaction, he picked up the Heretic’s Brand, gave it a jaunty twirl, and pressed it to Campbell’s face, not batting an eyelash at the man’s screaming and thrashing. 

Daud was suddenly very, very glad Attano was his ally.

“Let’s go,” he said, brushing past him.  Daud looked at Campbell, slumped in his restraints.  Served him right, honestly.  From what he’d gathered over time, all the Whalers put together had nothing on his heresies.  But nevertheless…

He needed a cigarette.

They made it as far as the ledge before someone came over the loudspeakers to start wailing that the facility was under lockdown, all the heavy-duty shutters slamming into place over the windows.  Below, Overseers were running all about like ants whose mound had been stepped on and scattered, trying to find whoever was responsible for maiming their leader. 

“Looks like they found him,” Billie said, choosing to show herself again. 

Daud nodded distractedly, still thinking about the horrible calm that had descended on Attano.  He needed that cigarette, badly, but wasn’t going to risk the tiny light giving anyone the slightest reason to look up for once in their life. 

Someone finds Campbell, Holger Square goes into lockdown—yet again, if overheard conversations were anything to judge by—Overseers alert the City Watch, City Watch perks up and agitates the whole district.  A row of dominoes falling, and Daud came to the conclusion that they needed to find a fast way out that _didn’t_ involve the bottleneck by the stocks. 

Attano beat him to the asking by saying, “Leonid, how can we leave?”

“You can get to the back yard that way.”  She pointed.  “It connects to the river; I can get the boat.” 

“Go.”  Daud waved her off.  She would be fine. 

They made it to the yard with little incident, aside from Arden slipping once, but Attano caught him by the back of his jacket and kept him from falling.  The Overseers back there were even worse than the ones out front, all puffed up on their importance, for they had _hounds_. 

Fantastic.  

Daud was just about to pull out his spyglass to see if the indistinct shape out on the water was Leonid when Attano broke a skylight and jumped into the building they were all standing on.  He did it while an alarm was blaring, so they weren’t discovered, but Daud was still left wondering what in the Void he was doing. 

He stuck his head out over the hole to check.  He’d gone after another rune, bringing his total up to at least three, and was inspecting a device strapped to a training dummy. 

Daud would remember what happened next for the rest of his life. 

Attano, too curious for his own good, decided to crank the handle and a _noise_ that was more force than sound slammed into Daud, very literally knocking the breath from him.  His vision swam, his head hurt, and he was almost overcome with the strangest sensation of loss for the whole second he heard it. 

Then, mercifully, it quit.  He sagged, gasping.  Attano hadn’t fared any better—he leaned against one of the counters, breathing hard. 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” 

“Music box.”  Attano waved a piece of paper around.  “Overseer device to suppress magic.”

“Well it did a damn good job.”  Arden nodded vigorously, pulling his mask off to scrub a hand through his hair. 

Attano transversed back up onto the roof, looking a bit contrite.  “I didn’t know it would do that.”

Daud just grunted.  He needed that cigarette.  Soon. 

Leonid gave them an odd look when they walked up to the boat, all pale and a touch sweaty, but if she had any questions, she kept them to herself.  Billie appeared again, long enough to assess how full the skiff would be and inform them, “I’ll make my own way back.”

Once they were well out on the water, Daud was finally able to smoke.  He took a deep drag, feeling some of the tension loosen out of his muscles.  When it started to endanger his fingers, he flicked the butt into the river and decided to have another.  Beside him, Arden did much the same until they reached the Flooded District.

* * *

“With Campbell gone, we can focus on Emily.”  Daud crossed out Holger Square.  “Attano, if you would.”

Corvo pulled the notebook out of his pocket and undid the lace holding it shut.  But when he opened it to the middle, hoping to find something obvious written in big, friendly letters, he was met with an incomprehensible jumble of words.

“It’s in _code._ ”  Every page was more of the same, and he flung it onto Daud’s desk, his heart suddenly in his throat.  He crossed his arms, gripping his biceps to conceal his shaking hands.

“What?”  Daud snatched it up and started flipping though it, frowning.  “ _Damnit_.”

From the floor, Leonid extended her hand, and Daud passed it to her.  She sighed and furrowed her brow, reaching behind herself to put it back on the desk. 

“I can give it to Fisher in the morning,” Daud said, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “She’s good with things like that.”

Corvo couldn’t do anything more than nod, his mind running circles around one imagined calamity after the next.  He started to worry at his lip, teeth digging in, hard.  He thought he heard Daud dismiss everyone, and started to leave, but was halted by a soft, rasping, “Attano.”

He turned, too weary to even ask _what_.  A slight change came over Daud and he said, “We’ll find her.  This might not pan out,” he tapped the notebook with one index finger, “but we will find her.”  He looked completely certain, sure and steady, and Corvo thought he could understand a little of how he had accumulated such a following.  He swallowed hard, jerked his chin once in acknowledgement, and excused himself.

* * *

In an old pub by the river, three shots rang out.

One for the Martin, too clever for his own good, who did not take the whiskey. 

One for Wallace, insufferably loyal, who came running at the sound of the pistol.  (It was no use—Pendleton, the alcoholic, drank his measure of the poison and asked for more.)

And lastly, one for Admiral Havelock, the traitor, who lay dead in his own taproom, still looking surprised.

Callista lowered the gun, clutched in a shaking hand. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone make Daud take his tylenol, he's suffering
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed, and thank you again for all your awesome comments :)
> 
> And the companion piece to this story, _From the Beginning_ , will go up soon! Montgomery's up first, and you can learn her first name and how she came to work for Daud.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter one this time.

Galia sighed, kicking her bootheels against the side of the building.

She _hated_ Waterfront watch duty. 

Nothing ever happened, especially not here, where the water was deep and the krusts were thick.  Everyone still left in the city had the sense to stay away.  The most excitement came when they were allowed to shoot the hagfish for supper, and that wasn’t terribly, well, _exciting_. 

The worst part was knowing this was a safe assignment, meant to teach everyone patience.  She’d overheard Daud say that himself one day, when she went to report that, surprise, surprise, nothing had happened.  Again.

Ugh.

At least she was _technically_ in charge, since Quinn had gone to check on the group by the refinery.  And Quinn was fun.  She’d cuss a blue streak right in front of everybody and didn’t even care if you swore right back. 

She laid back on the roof, feet dangling over the edge, practically bored to tears.  This was the absolute worst fucking—

She heard a noise.

A boat noise.

She jerked upright.

_Who the fuck?_

And sure enough, there was a little boat down there in the water, kind of like theirs but it sounded way better, not like it was about to die, and in it sat four people. 

Not City Watch, not Overseers—people with the plague maybe?  No, they weren’t coughing, and plague people never brought that much shit with them anyway. 

They were an unknown damn quantity, and that scared Galia.

She heard a transversal, and Killian said, “Who are they?”

“I don’t fucking know.”  Finally, something was happening, but this had absolutely not been what she wanted.  And the skiff just kept on puttering down the street, getting closer and closer.  _Fucking stop_ , Galia thought.  _Give me a minute to think_.  “Is Quinn back?”

“No.  What do we do?”

“Get Daud.”  That had to be the right thing, right?

“Okay.”  Killian took off, and Galia stayed behind, watching.

* * *

“I’m making progress,” Fisher said, indicating her notes.  “It’s slow going, but I don’t think it’s indecipherable.” 

“How long do you think it’s going to take you?”  Corvo had his arms crossed, leaning one hip on Daud’s desk.

Fisher sighed.  “Hard to say.  If it were a cipher, I’d have it done in a few days at the most, but codes are harder.  Give me another day or two, and I may be able to give you an estimate.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Of course, sir.”  She gathered her notes, bowed, and left the office. 

Daud watched him fidget.  “It’s only been a week.”

He raked a hand through his hair.  “I know.”

“I remember the Lord Regent mentioning a lover with deep pockets.  I could send a couple of squads out, have them try to figure out who it is.”

Corvo shook his head.  “That can wait.  I just want Emily back.”

Daud lit a cigarette.  “They could look for her.”

“No, they won’t—” he exhaled hard though his nose and fell silent.  Daud wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly understand precisely how badly he (he, himself, not a group of masked assassins) needed to find his daughter, given that he seemed to have no children.  Trying to explain would be nothing more than wasted effort.  “The Pendletons aren’t stupid, they’ll have her hidden well.  There’s no point in looking.”

“Attano,” Daud said, in that very particular tone of voice that meant there was a lecture inbound, and Corvo couldn’t take it.

“ _Don’t,_ you don’t—the Pendletons are _vile_ , Daud—” he could feel himself approaching incoherency, his nerves beyond frayed, and tried to clamp down on his emotions.  “I have to—”

“Damnit, Attano, _I know who the Pendletons are_.”  Daud had put both elbows on his desk and leaned forward, frowning deeply.  “I have filled contracts at their parties because someone turning up dead in the fountain is believable.  I know, and we will bring Emily back to you, as quickly as is possible.  Trust us.” 

It was a strange thing, for a killer to ask Corvo to _trust_ , in him and his band.  Stranger still was the way Corvo felt almost as though he could, and he stared at Daud, who had gone quiet and steady in that strange way of his once more.

Before he was able to make any kind of response, the office doors burst open and a novice ran in. 

“Killian, what is it?”  Daud sharpened, rising from his chair.

“Daud, sir,” Killian panted, saluting and standing as straight as he could.  “Galia and I spotted a boat at the Waterfront.”  He took a couple of deep breaths.  “It isn’t Overseers, or City Watch, or people with plague, sir.  We don’t know who they are.” 

“How many?”

“Four, sir.  With luggage.”

“Show me.”

* * *

From atop one of the buildings, Daud peered down at the interlopers through his spyglass.  There were two women and two men, by the looks of them, all deep in discussion with the boat stopped.  The women didn’t look dangerous, one dressed in a jacket and cap, and the other in staid black and white—some sort of domestic servant, perhaps.  One man was older, gray-haired, with his hand on the tiller, and one was talking, gesturing with quick, birdlike movements. 

There was something niggling at the back of Daud’s mind, some kind of familiarity with the talker—in his hands and the way his overlarge coat hung off his frame, but he couldn’t quite see, and adjusted the spyglass, bringing everyone into sharper focus. 

Then he remembered where he knew the man from—classes and classes and hunting down books in the library, dining hall demonstrations gone awry (it never failed, if someone stood up and announced they had something to show everyone, he was always best served to pick up his plate and move to the edge of the room), and Outsider’s eyes, it was entirely too early for this. 

He probably had a hand in it, the meddlesome bastard.

Daud grumbled to himself and lowered the spyglass.

“What?” Attano said, worry verging into confusion at Daud’s lack of action.

“Look for yourself.”  Daud handed him the spyglass and crossed his arms.  Of all the people to wander into the Flooded District, it just had to be—

“Is that _Piero Joplin?_ ”  Daud hummed in agreement.  Galia leaned forward from Attano’s other side, looking much too interested, and he narrowed his eyes at her.  Then, Attano said, his voice low and urgent, “That’s Callista Curnow.”

“Who?”

“Geoff Curnow’s niece.”  Attano collapsed the spyglass, his brow furrowed. 

“The captain of the Watch?”  Daud didn’t think there was another _Geoff Curnow_ in Dunwall, but why would his niece be in Rudshore, of all places?

Attano nodded.  “She and Geoff are close, I would have thought she’d be staying with him.”  He looked troubled. 

“Do you want us to pick them up?”  It would be easy enough, none of the people were even armed. 

“If you would.  I’d like to talk to Callista.”  Attano tapped the spyglass against his leg, retreating into his thoughts.

Daud summoned Thomas, who bowed in greeting, as was his custom.  “Sir.”

“Gather a few others and collect them,” he said, pointing to the boat.  “They shouldn’t be a threat.”

“Yes, sir.”  Thomas bowed once more and disappeared.  A few minutes later, he and several others transversed into position around the boat, tidily surrounding it.  All the passengers took fright at their sudden appearance and capitulated to whatever exactly Thomas told them without much fuss.  The boatman did draw a pistol, surprisingly, but that was taken from him almost as soon as he’d brought it out.

When everyone was well in hand, Daud and Attano both made their way back to his office, and once there, unconsciously assumed exactly the same poses they’d been in before, right down the cigarette held loosely between Daud’s fingers. 

Thomas led them in; they all looked around, caught somewhere between defiance and abject terror.  It was a mix Daud knew well.  Piero recognized him, he could see it flicker across his face, just as Callista recognized Attano, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. 

“Hello, Callista,” he said softly. 

“Lord Corvo,” she said, “why are you—what—”

“I could ask you the same.  What are you doing here, has something happened to Geoff?”  Attano was putting on a very convincing front of relaxed ease, but Daud could see his worry in his hands’ too-tight grip on his biceps.

“No, Uncle is fine, but—oh, Corvo, it was so awful—” she said, her eyes welling. 

“Tell us what happened,” he said, not unkindly, and slowly, with many starts and stops and backtracking and interruptions, they learned what had transpired just upriver.

* * *

One week earlier, as rain slid down the windows of the Hound Pits Pub, Samuel and Callista ate dinner together.  They sat across from each other in one booth, and Wallace sat on the far side of the room by himself, so as to be closer to the stairs _in case his Lord called_.

Wallace was, by all accounts, irritating to the highest degree, so that suited Samuel and Callista just fine. 

Lydia pulled on a greatcoat and vanished outdoors to fetch Piero and Cecelia—they’d been out in the workshop all day, up to Outsider only knew what, and ought to come in and eat something, she’d said.  Samuel and Callista agreed and went back to their own meal, conversing quietly about nothing in particular, enjoying each other’s company.

Havelock, Martin, and Pendleton had all gathered in Havelock’s room—a relief, to be sure.  That way the shouting wouldn’t seem so loud.  They hadn’t been able cooperate at all, not since Corvo had gone missing from Coldridge, leaving nothing but a string of unconscious guards and a destroyed door in his wake.  Not a trace of him had been seen since. 

Havelock thought he was dead, Martin maintained he’d gone into hiding on one of the other isles, and Pendleton didn’t care one way or the other and insisted they ought to just hire Daud, anyway. 

Callista, Cecelia, and Lydia were all tired of hearing about it while they were trying to sleep.

But that night, it was quiet, and Samuel and Callista ate dinner in peace.  It wasn’t a fine dinner—all the food was a little sad and grey—but it was warm, and it was enough, and they were grateful. 

Lydia still hadn’t come back, she must have been having a hard time coaxing Cecelia and Piero away from their latest project. 

All of a sudden, they heard a gunshot. 

Samuel and Callista looked at each other in alarm, and Wallace slid out of the booth, calling out _my Lord?_

Seconds later, there was another shot. 

Samuel and Cecelia kept looking at each other, now well and truly afraid, and stood, tentatively edging toward the stairs, painfully aware of every creaking floorboard, every sound their shoes made. 

They had just drawn even with the bar when Havelock came storming in.  Everything about him was wide—his face, his shoulders, his knuckles, the plant of his feet—and he seemed to fill the entire room, even more imposing for his thunderous expression, and the gun in his hand. 

As it happened, Samuel carried a pistol.  _For the river krusts_ , he’d said, and Callista believed him, for Samuel was as gentle and kind as one could ask for, and she’d seen burns from river krust phlegm, shiny and red and painful, and no one was getting rid of them these days, except Samuel. 

As it happened, Samuel had left his pistol on the bar that day.  _Needs to be cleaned_ , he’d said, and Callista believed him, for she knew more about guns than one might think, and she’d seen the grime from repeated firing, dull and black and sticky, and no one really took care of things like that these days, except Samuel. 

A true shame, that. 

Callista reached across herself and took Samuel’s pistol, her palm molding to the grip, her finger moving up to the trigger’s smooth metal curve, and her world narrowed to herself and Havelock, standing in front of her, his face morphing from fury to surprise.  He might have said something to her, told her she didn’t want to do this, but she never would be quite able to recall. 

She remembered afternoons with her uncle in front of a target, one of his hands warm between her shoulder blades, the other gently holding her elbow up as he told her to breathe, to keep both eyes open, to squeeze the trigger.  Don’t pull, you’ll ruin your aim.  Just squeeze. 

Callista squeezed.

(Later, Piero said the bullet passed straight though his heart and embedded itself in his vertebrae, and that his heart was in very poor condition and likely would have given out on him in a few years anyway, had Callista not helped it along.  Lydia told him not to sound so cheerful about it.) 

Havelock fell, rather like a tree, and lay dead, his face frozen in surprise. 

Callista lowered the gun, clutched in a shaking hand.  She hadn’t even thought, she had just acted, and now she had killed a man.

She thought she might be sick.

Lydia and Piero and Cecelia all came rushing in, and there was a great kerfuffle as they all spoke at once.  None of them knew what to do, all of them were scared, shaken.  They accidentally talked over Cecelia and she started to cry, and the shared goal of getting her to stop inadvertently sorted out their problems.

It was decided that Callista and Piero would check on the others, and everyone else would go out to the workshop, where Cecelia could sniff and blow her nose into Samuel’s handkerchief without knowing that Havelock’s body was _right there_.

Callista took the pistol again, and she and Piero picked their way down the hall, stepping over Wallace, who lay crumpled in a pool of blood.  In Havelock’s room, they found Martin and Pendleton. 

Pendleton looked even sicklier than usual, an empty whiskey glass clasped loosely in his hand.  Piero said he did not live.  Blood glistened wetly all down the front of Martin’s robes, and a full glass of whiskey sat before him.  Piero didn’t have to check for life.  They both knew there was none. 

That night, everyone slept in the workshop. 

The next day, they all began to pack their things independently of one another, each person knowing the Hound Pits Pub was their home no more.  It was Piero’s idea to go to the Flooded District.  _His elixir would safeguard them against the plague_ , he said, _they could hide out there until things settled down._  

So, they loaded their belongings onto _Amaranth_ and went downriver.  To wait.  To hide. 

* * *

Everyone sat in silence a few moments after Callista finished telling their tale, digesting.  It was a lot to take in, and Daud could feel a headache coming on.  Thomas had put his mask of professional impassivity on (his actual mask had come off half an hour ago), but Attano was staring a hole in the floorboards. 

“What happened to Lydia?” he asked.  Daud could have thought of several more pressing questions, but he supposed that was as good a place as any to start.

“She’s going to Potterstead.  She has family there,” Cecelia said, speaking for the first time.  Everyone looked at her.  “What?” 

“Were there any others involved in the conspiracy?”  There was a chorus of _no_ s. 

“Martin told me I’d work with good men.  I was only supposed to be Lady Emily’s governess.”  Callista’s voice went wavery and she wrung her hands.  “Lord Corvo, may we go?”

Attano looked at him, as though seeking permission to let them leave, so Daud said, “Thomas, take them to one of the rooms.” 

The women and Samuel trailed after him in a clump, but Piero hung back, hands jammed in his pockets.  Daud’s headache got a little worse. 

“What, Piero?”  He might as well get it over with. 

“At the Loyalists’ behest, I crafted a pair of items for Lord Attano.”  He hurried closer.  “A mask,” he said, holding it out in both hands.  Daud and Attano leaned in to inspect the thing—a skull-like monstrosity with a wide, toothless grin, more macabre than the Whalers’ masks could ever be.  “And a sword.”  _Some knife_ , Daud thought, seeing a hilt and nothing more, until Piero did something with it and a blade unfolded from within.  His eyebrows rose.  “Both will serve you well, should you choose to employ them.  And if I may, I will take my leave.” 

Daud waved him off, all too glad to see him go, and turned to Attano, who was studying his new gear closely.  “What do you want to do with them?”

He shrugged.  “I was about to ask you.  I don’t think Cecelia or Samuel will cause any problems if we let them go, and Callista won’t breathe a word to Geoff if I ask her not to.  I just don’t want the Lord Regent finding Piero.”

Daud grimaced.  “I know.  He could make something just as dangerous as any of Sokolov’s inventions.” 

“Should we keep him here?”

“I don’t think we have much choice.”  Void, that was just what Daud needed, a moonstruck natural philosopher wandering about, probably making plans to _study_ everyone.  “The others can go as they please.”

Attano nodded.  “I’ll let them know.”  A couple of moments later, he started to make a strange, hoarse noise, shoulders shaking.  It took Daud entirely too long to realize he was laughing. 

“They came _so close_ ,” he said.  “If they had just listened to Pendleton— _Void_.”  He leaned heavily on the desk, cackling like a madman.  Daud snorted.  That would have been a coincidence for the history books, to be sure.  He wished Billie were there—she would appreciate the irony.  He would have to tell her when he next got the chance. 

“I even did some of their work for them,” he said, starting to chuckle himself, and he could resist no more, joining Attano to make a dreadful-sounding chorus of laughter. 

The office doors creaked open and Daud looked up to see Billie walking in.  Her expression shuttered when she saw the two of them. 

“What is it, Billie?” he asked, still smiling.  He hadn’t gotten a good laugh out of something in _months_. 

“I have a lead.”  She crossed her arms.  “Bundry Rothwild has a boat, _Delilah_.  He has a place on Slaughterhouse Row.”  The set of her mouth was hard and grim. 

Daud checked the time.  If he grabbed something to eat, they could leave soon, and probably even be back around nightfall.  “Give me an hour.”

“I’ll meet you there.”  She turned on her heel and left.

“Who’s Delilah?”

“I don’t know.”  Daud started gathering his things.  “The Outsider appeared a few months ago, gave me the name and nothing else.”  Knife, wristbow, darts, bolts (just in case), and chokedust.  That ought to do it.  “I’m sure the this is connected, Billie’s good at her work and everything in Dunwall’s tanged like a bag of snakes.”

“Here.”  Attano tossed something at him—a bone charm, a very sneaky one. 

“Thank you,” he said, thrown slightly off-balance by the gesture.  He and Attano were allies, sure, but things like that just felt… odd.  He snugged his belt around his waist, tucking the bone charm into one of the pouches, and strode from his office.

He had a mystery to unravel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So DOTO did one thing right and let me listen to Daud laugh, which was fantastic in a way, but he sounded terrible.
> 
> And the first chapter of _From the Beginning_ is up and all about Monty!


	7. Chapter 7

All things considered, it was easy to get into the slaughterhouse. 

A worker fussing to the City Watch about his time card provided the diversion Daud needed to get onto the roofs unseen.  From there, a quick jaunt across the tiles brought the place into view, and he transversed into the vacant building across the street.  

His skin crawled as he took in the room, particularly the immense sigil covering the floor, drawn in—definitely blood.  The cooking pot didn’t help matters.  He could see a tattered piece of paper and picked it up to read with great trepidation. 

_The port side eye of whale, newly dead_

_Plop it in the pot, grisly and red_

_Weeper, Weeper, weeps no more_

_Laid to rest on blood-etched floor_

_Do this for me dearie and I’ll give you a birthday treat._

_—Granny_

Oh, absolutely not.  A “birthday treat” from Granny Rags that involved a ritual did not sound trustworthy in the slightest, and he left the place behind, unnerved. 

Then he just had to decide how to get in.  The main entrance was right out—too exposed, and he didn’t have a time card anyway.  There was a drainage tunnel that presumably led into the slaughterhouse, but someone had chosen to install an arc pylon much too close to it for his liking, and he didn’t want to run the risk of frying himself—but the receiving bay door was all too inviting.  It was a simple matter to knock out the two butchers patrolling by it and install the whale oil tank necessary to get the crane into position.  He quickly climbed the chain and went inside. 

There, things were more difficult.

First off, there was the smell.  Outside, there had been an… aroma, but it dissipated somewhat in the open air and was bearable.  It was so much worse indoors.  As soon as he shut the door, Daud gagged.  He tried breathing though his mouth, but that only made him _taste_ it.  He had to give himself a minute to stand there and acclimate before moving on, during which he resolved to be done with the place as quickly as humanly possible. 

He pitied whoever was on laundry duty and had to deal with his clothes.

Billie transversed beside him, crouching.  “Rothwild’s got a stubborn reputation.  I doubt asking nicely is going to work.  We’ll have to find a more persuasive means of getting what you want out of him.  He’s probably close to his office, we should start there.” 

Daud nodded, unwilling to open his mouth to say anything.  Billie left, and he frowned after her, wondering why she had been terse lately.  Well, more terse than usual.  He would never accuse her of being bubbly.

Down on the ground, several workers were talking, so he slipped past them and into the next room, where he crept over everyone’s heads very, very, carefully using the scaffolding.  From there he made his way to the charmingly named killing floor, where he found the source of the low noise he’d noticed at the edges of his hearing. 

A live whale hung in slings over a pit, bleeding and groaning its song. 

“The power system in there looks like it’ll put down that whale in an instant.  I know they’re just beasts, but… still.”  Billie shrugged and left a moment later.  He looked at it.  It was suffering, clearly, but when it came down to brass tacks, Rothwild was more important.  He went into the office, thinking _later_. 

At least the smell wasn’t so powerful in there.  The place was irritatingly tidy, with nothing that would have allowed him to keep his trip short.  There was a safe, but no combination ready at hand, a pair of pistols and a few bullets, and no more than two notes on the desk, though there was a decanter of cider on the windowsill.  Daud poured himself a glass and started to read.

_Mr. Rothwild_ , the first one went,

_My research on Abigail Ames has turned up nothing.  She has no close kin that we can leverage.  Looks like the plague took her sister and mother.  Her father died on a whaling ship of your predecessor about ten years ago.  As far as blackmail goes, she’s got no secrets I could uncover.  Devout as an Overseer, it seems.  Not surprising, since she’s rejected every blackmail offer to come her way.  I don’t think she’s making a power play; she seems to legitimately have the best interests of the laborers in mind._

_As I interview the workers, it seems she really has them in thrall.  They’ll do whatever she says, and their belief in her is absolute.  If something happens to her (as in, like an accident or something) I expect they’ll riot.  I’ll keep searching for an angle on her, but in the meantime I advise leaving her intact.  It might be worth even considering some of her reforms.  I know that doesn’t suit you, but at least it would buy some time and get the workers back in here.  The Butchers lack the finer skills to keep this place operational._

_Your servant,_

_—G_

Daud sipped at the cider.  Very interesting.  He knew of Ames—reform-minded agitators did tend to draw attention to themselves—but it seemed she’d stepped up her efforts recently.  He moved on to the next note. 

_Rothwild,_

_The interrogation chair is set up in the meat locker and fully powered.  We have run some test runs on a few of the most problematic laborers.  They spill all of their secrets very quickly.  They seem to die easily after about 4 treatments.  She is ready for you whenever you need her._

_Granville_

_Butcher Foreman_

Ah, things were coming together.  Daud thought he might just have found his persuasive method.  The vague wording of “treatments” was a bit concerning, but with luck, he wouldn’t need more than four of them.  He gulped down the rest of the cider and left to explore further, now on the lookout for Ames as well. 

As he crept down the hall, he heard faint voices.  In the filing room stood Rothwild, and a young woman sat in a chair.  Ames. 

“You were working for Ramsey.  How long?  How much does he know by now?”

“Ramsey?  No, this is about the workers.  This is about fair pay and safe conditions.”  She sounded confused, a little frightened.

Daud eased into the room, keeping out of sight behind the filing cabinets. 

“Don’t bother.  You’re not the first of his moles I’ve caught.  What happened, Abigail?  I trusted you.  Extra rations, bags of coin as bonuses.  But you’re about to see that my generosity is counterbalanced by a very inhumane side.”

“Mr. Rothwild—Bundry—”

“ _Don’t_ call me that.  That privilege is _lost_ to you.”

Suddenly, she stood, and when she spoke, her voice was hard.  “You don’t know Ramsey.  When he comes for me, he’ll kill you.  He’ll gut you like the street filth you are and feed you to the rats.”

Daud wondered why _everyone_ in the whaling business had such an impressive ruthless streak.  He flicked his wrist, loading a sleep dart. 

“Ah, now it comes out.  No one is coming.  I’ve broken your strike and my butchers are the finest fighters in Dunwall.  Ms. Ames, you’re about to find out a few things I learned when I was a gaffer.  I can do things that don’t even hurt at first.  This conversation is going to last a long, long time.” 

Daud had heard enough.  Rothwild went down with a dart in his arm.

Ames started.  “Is anyone there?”

He walked out from behind the bookshelves.  She smiled.  “Well, Daud, what do you want with me?”

“I’m not here for you.  I’m here to learn about a ship, called the _Delilah_.”

“Did the Lord Regent send you?  That old fool.”  She scoffed.  “I know all about the _Delilah_.  _All_ of it.  And I can give you exactly what you want.” 

Stars above, she was as bad as the Outsider.  “Please do.”

“Not so fast.  I need something from you in exchange.”

Of course.  “That’s what I thought.  What?”

“We’re both professionals, Mr. Daud.  I was hired to get these gutless workers striking, which I did very nicely, and then destroy the slaughterhouse itself.  That’s where I got caught.  And that’s where I need your help.”

He didn’t like the sound of that.  “How?”

“The whale oil in those tanks out there is enough to destroy this entire place—the important industrial bits, especially.  Just open all the valves at once to let the oil start flowing.  The pressure will go out of control, and…” She shrugged.  “Boom.”

That wasn’t going to happen, but he decided to play along for the sake of keeping things relaxed.  “What about the people inside?”

“Growing a conscience?  The factory workers are already out.  My boss will hire them on, in better conditions than they’d ever see here.  Not the butchers though.  They can die screaming for all I care.”

“Don’t try and con me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.  Here’s the key.”  She pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to him.  “Don’t get caught.  You take care of the slaughterhouse and I’ll tell you everything I know about the _Delilah_.”  She sauntered off with all the confident airs of someone who had just made an excellent business transaction. 

Billie appeared at his side, watching Ames go down the hall.  “What are you going to do?”

* * *

Rothwild was about as heavy as an ox, Daud decided, and twice as ungainly, broad enough he kept sliding off of Daud’s shoulder as they went to the meat locker.  The only positive was that it was a short trip.

“I’ll make sure you get to enjoy this.”  Billie flitted about the room, locking all the doors as Daud let Rothwild slump into the chair.  It was electric—no wonder the workers tended to die.  It wasn’t long before he began to stir. 

“What do you want to know that’s worth crossing a man like me?”  He shook his head like there was water in his ears, fighting off the lingering effects of the dart. 

“I want to know about a ship, the _Delilah_.  What’s behind the name?”

“Choke on your own spit,” he said, and hawked and spat off to the side, presumably for effect. 

Unimpressed, Daud shocked him.  “Who is Delilah?”

“Hah!  Think I’ll give up a friend at the first tickle?  That’s the kind of thing I pay your sister for down at the Golden Cat.”

Daud zapped him again, dispassionately. 

That one made him let out a strangled yell.  “We can talk this out, like _businessmen_.”

“Why did you name it Delilah?” Daud said through gritted teeth.  Six months he’d waited for a lead, and now he was having to stand in a reeking meat locker with a disgustingly sticky floor and electrocute a man just to make him talk about a _boat_.  His patience was starting to wear thin. 

“What do you care?  And it wasn’t me.  The previous owner named it after some sweetheart of his, a painter.  Piss off!” 

One more should do it.  It would have to.  “Who was the previous owner?”

He screeched.  “ _Barrister Timsh, alright?!_ He told me the story.  Delilah was a woman he knew.  Grew up working in Dunwall Tower, got kicked out.  A painter.  She put on _funny airs_ , proud.  She caught his eye, but it was worse than that.  He couldn’t think of anything else, just her—she wormed into his mind somehow.  He built that ship for her, and a lot more.  _Gave_ her half his fortune.  Then he got scared, came to me afraid.  A man, like that, afraid.  He wanted to dump the ship and I needed a business partner, so we made a deal.  Meant to change the name.  Wish I’d done it,” he spat, and sulked.

“I hope that was satisfying,” Billie said.  “Here’s the room key, when you’re ready to go.  Sir, earlier I spotted crates bound for the far end of Tyvia.  Might be worth stuffing him in one, just to tie things off.  He doesn’t seem the type to forgive.  Of course,” she said slowly and pointedly, “why go to all the trouble, when a blade to the neck would accomplish the same thing?” 

 “The crates will do.”  Billie stalked forward, sleep dart in hand, and Daud gave a hard pull on the arcane bond, hoping Kieron wasn’t otherwise occupied—he’d be able to carry Rothwild without too much difficulty.

“Kieron, put him in a crate and make sure he can’t get out.  Billie, show him the way.” 

“Yes, sir.”  He heaved Rothwild up, grunting.  “Billie, help, he’s slipping.”

“Get him yourself.”

_“Billie—”_

Daud left them to it, confident they would sort out the issue.  He had other business to tend to. 

Back at the killing floor, he found a perch near the ceiling and readied his wristbow, aiming carefully.  He didn’t dare try to choke the butchers out for fear of crushing the tanks of whale oil powering their saws. 

One—

Two—

Three darts found their targets, and with the coast clear, Daud set up the power system Billie had pointed out earlier, deafened by the whale.  It was easily twice as loud as the ones in the Void, and the song was different as well—lower, harsher.  With both tanks of oil in their slots, he climbed the stairs.  It only took a moment to end the whale’s life, and a near-silence, almost eerie after the din, descended on the room.

He spared the poor beast one more glance and left. 

He relished the fresher air of the outdoors as made he sprinted across the rooftops.  He’d forgotten just how much fun that was, having spent much of the past several months planning and hoping for leads.

He pushed himself as fast as he could go and leapt, letting himself plunge to the earth for just a moment before transversing to the next building.  Billie caught up with him, and the pair of them ran right out of the district before Daud slowed—not because he was tired, but because the evening was mild, and the sunset was vibrantly orange. 

“Billie, wait.”  She turned, head tilted.  “Let’s stop here for a while.”

“Getting tired, old man?”

“Hardly,” he scoffed, sitting by the edge of the roof.  Billie plopped down next to him, cross-legged, and they looked out over the river in companionable silence.  “I have something funny to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.  Those people that showed up earlier today, they were part of some plot to put Emily on the throne.  The “Loyalist Conspiracy” they called themselves.  The three in charge planned on breaking Attano out of Coldridge.”

“Did they now?”  Billie was starting to get interested, and Daud smiled.

“They did.  I could tell you the whole thing if you want, but apparently they couldn’t manage to cooperate after he vanished, and all killed each other a couple of days ago.” 

She snorted.  “It figures.”

“That isn’t even the best part.  Treavor Pendleton was part of it, and he kept insisting they ought to hire us.”

That got a real laugh, and Daud grinned, huffing a chuckle of his own. 

“The one time one of those highborn dandies has a good idea, no one listens.”  Billie shook her head.

“I know.”  Struck by a thought, Daud reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, tugging her across the handful of inches between them.  She stiffened, relaxed after a moment, and leaned into him as he rubbed slow circles into her jacket with his thumb. 

It had been much, much too long since they’d done something like this, just existed together.  Daud had forgotten just how nice that was, too.  He sighed, content.

“The bodyguard’s going to have us all killed, you know.” 

Daud stilled.  “I won’t let that happen,” he said, even as he remembered _your story is close to ending, and even you can’t escape it_. 

Billie leaned back.  “Do you think you’ll have a choice?  You want to put the Protector and his kid back in Dunwall Tower, but what happens then?  We all just go free?”  She said it like the idea was more preposterous than a blood ox spontaneously growing wings and flying about, or the Overseers collectively deciding to relax a little. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted.  “I’ve made my decisions and I’ll take what comes.  _But_ ,” he said, when she started to protest, “I will do everything I can to protect all of you.” 

“Whatever you say.”  She still sounded skeptical, but leaned over again all the same, and they watched the boats and the birds until the sun fell behind the skyline on the far bank and the world went cold and grey. 

“Let’s go home,” Daud murmured, standing.  He held out his hand, helped Billie up, and they went home through the dusk.

* * *

“King me,” Cecelia said shyly, nudging her piece into place. 

Rulfio grinned.  “Leonid, I thought you were good at checkers.” 

“I _am,_ but she’s better.”  She reluctantly crowned Cecelia’s piece.  “And you say that as if I don’t beat you every time.”

“I never said _I_ was any good at it.”  He linked his hands behind his head and leaned back.  “It’s your just desserts for tormenting us all these years.”

“Are you sure this is okay?”  Cecelia glanced behind herself at the doors.  “His office is right there.” 

“He doesn’t mind.”  Leonid returned her attention to the checkerboard.  “As long as we stay reasonably quiet.  He’s still gone, anyway.”

“Not anymore,” Rulfio said, looking out the window.  “Hello, sir!”

Sure enough, Daud came through the window moments later.  Leonid waved.  “Hello, everyone,” he said distractedly, walking past at a good clip.  Corvo followed, wrinkling his nose at the smell wafting off of him. 

“Did you find anything on Delilah?”

“Something.”  Daud unbuckled his bandolier and let it fall to the floor.  “The boat was named after a painter, Barrister Timsh’s former sweetheart.  Rothwild said he was obsessed with her.”  He glanced at Corvo.  “He also said she grew up in Dunwall Tower.”

He thought back, rifling through his memories.  “If she did, I didn’t meet her.  She might’ve been before my time.” 

Daud frowned.  “Mm.  Seems I’ll be going to the Legal District after all.”

“I spoke to our guests earlier,” Corvo said.  “Samuel’s going to take Callista to Geoff’s tomorrow, but he’ll be coming back so he and Rulfio can work on your skiff.  Cecelia says she doesn’t have anywhere to go.” 

“She can stay, there’s plenty of room.”  Daud tugged the map out from under some other papers and circled the Legal District with red grease pencil. 

“And Piero wants a workspace.” 

“Of course he does,” he groused.  “Void take it, as long as he stays in one place.” 

The office doors creaked open, and Fisher came in.  “Daud, Lord Attano.”  She smiled, hurrying across the room.  “I’ve solved it.” 

Corvo (and Daud, though he didn’t notice) froze, and then started shoving everything off the desk to clear a space for her impressive stack of paper.  She let it drop with a thump.  “Really, it’s absurdly simple once you know how it works.  And I must give some credit to Hobson, Nicholas, and Rapha, they helped decode sections of it.”

“But you know where Emily is?”  Corvo heart felt like it was about to pound right out of his chest. 

“Yes, she—” Fisher hesitated and seemed to steel herself.  “Sir, she’s at the Golden Cat.”

“The Pendletons have been keeping her in a brothel.”  Daud’s voice was low and tightly controlled, and the leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched his fists.  He looked—dangerous, Corvo thought.  Like the figure in all the most terrifying stories.

“Yes, sir.”  Fisher bowed her head.

“Is she—well?”  Corvo’s voice broke on the last word. 

“I believe so, yes.” 

He crossed his arms and hung his head, willing himself into stillness, trying to calm himself enough to hold it together a little while longer. 

“Thank you, Fisher,” he murmured, just as Daud said, “That was good work.  You’re dismissed.”

She collected her papers, bowed, and left. 

“Burrows is out of his damned mind,” Daud growled, putting his things in order as though each item had personally wronged him.

“I’m going tomorrow.”  Of that, Corvo was certain.

“ _Agreed_.”  Out of things to straighten, Daud lit a cigarette as he crossed the room.  He leaned out and said, “Rulfio, Leonid, come in.”  He summoned two others—Thomas and Quinn, who swallowed visibly at the sight of Corvo.

Daud waited for everyone to gather around his desk.  “We know Lady Emily’s location,” he said, and held up a hand when they all tried to speak at once.  “She’s at the Golden Cat, and we’ll be collecting her tomorrow.  Leonid, Thomas, I want you to leave early, scout the area.”

“We can go tonight,” Leonid said, and Thomas nodded beside her.  “We’ll stay in the safehouse.” 

“I could borrow Samuel’s boat and take you, that’s going to be fastest.”  Rulfio flicked his hair out of his eyes.  “He won’t mind.”

“Alright,” Daud said, and then, oddly gently, “Quinn, you’ll be with Attano and I.” 

Her leg paused in its frantic bouncing, and it took her a moment to respond.  “Okay.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Corvo watched everyone file out, paying special attention to Quinn.  Once the door swung shut, he said, “She seems scared of me.”

Daud stopped poking around in his desk drawer and sighed heavily.  “You shot her.  Her tibia and fibula were in pieces, and she has something akin to claustrophobia.  Staying in the infirmary was hard for her, at times.” 

Corvo thought back.  He remembered the pair of Whalers that had advanced first—one bigger than the other.  They were good, horribly good, and he faced the smaller one first.  He disarmed them—her, he supposed—only to watch as she pulled another knife from her boot in a motion that was far more fluid than it had any right to be.  In response he drew his pistol and shot her in the calf, wanting her to _stop_ long enough for him to deal with the other one.  Then—well.  He didn’t want to think about _then_. 

“Ah,” he said, intelligently, and thought of something.  “Emily’s going to need a friend.”

Daud nodded slowly.  “Little Thomas might be a good one.  He’s older than she is, but he’s a good kid.  I could talk to him about it.”

“If you would.”  He was awfully serious, but Emily might appreciate that.  She might not want someone too upbeat.  Void, Corvo realized with a lurch, he didn’t _know_. 

“Get some rest, bodyguard,” Daud said, clapping him on the shoulder on his way past. 

He left the office, trying to squash a strange, undefinable emotion that floated somewhere between relief and hope and fear and complete, terrible fury. 

Tomorrow.  He would see his daughter again tomorrow. 

Leonid sat on one of the desks by the half-finished game of checkers, wringing her hands.  “Lord Attano, I wanted to tell you something.” 

“What is it?”

“I—I was there when Empress Jessamine was killed.”  Her voice was very small and shaky.  “I just wanted you to know, and I wanted to say—” She curled in on herself a little.  “I’m sorry.  I know I can never make it up to you, but I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry.”  She sobbed and covered her mouth with one hand to muffle the sound. 

Corvo’s throat constricted.  It suddenly made sense why she’d tried so hard to be his friend, and kept seeking him out time and time again, even when he was less than receptive to the idea of having fun. 

“I’ll go.”  She slid off the desk, sniffing loudly.

“Leonid, wait.”

She turned back to face him, shoulders hunched, head bowed.  He approached her carefully and went out on a limb.  He’d seen her be affectionate with Thomas, her friends, some of the novices, even _Daud_.  He touched her arm and drew her in closer, giving her ample time to pull away if she really did want to go.  Instead she relaxed into it as he hugged her. 

He swallowed hard.  He could do this, for Leonid.  “I forgive you,” he whispered, and even though his heart wasn’t really in it, he was going to try.  He’d heard it was a process.  She pulled away after a few moments, wiping at her eyes. 

“I ought to go.  Thomas and Rulfio are probably wondering where I am.”  She sniffed.  _“Thank you.”_

* * *

At opposite ends of the district, Corvo and Daud sat on their beds with their heads in their hands as they worried about the next day.  About the many, many things that could go wrong.  About Emily.  Corvo worried she might not be the same girl he’d played hide-and-seek with six months earlier.  Daud worried about bringing her to Rudshore and surrounding her with the same masked faces that had broken her world.

Neither of them slept much that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're getting places! Also, what did you think of having more notes featured in this one? I thought I'd try something a little different this time. 
> 
> Thanks so much again for all your comments, they're most excellent, and as always I hope you enjoyed!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest one yet, enjoy!

The next day dawned clear and bright and cold, pale sunlight glinting off the world’s thin coating of frost. 

Daud woke shivering when dawn’s first fingers shone through the holes in his ceiling and reached for his clothes, dressing under the covers with a skill brought on by extensive practice.  He pushed the blankets aside, jammed his feet into his boots (what he wouldn’t give for a way to warm _those_ up), and dumped some water into the basin— _cold_ water, shit, he’d not thought that through—then dumped that out and got some that was warm, and shaved. 

When finished, he reached for the little tin of light yellow goo and scratched some out, struggling a bit, given that it was half-frozen.  He warmed it in his hands, making the air smell vaguely of sandalwood, and worked it through his hair before combing it carefully into place. 

That was always the next-to-last step, followed by gloves, and it had become a little ritual of sorts over the years, a way of feeling…finished, perhaps, before leaving his room.  Of course, he didn’t always get to do it—there were times someone had to wake him to bring something pressing to his attention and then any semblance of routine was lost—but it was nice. 

He tugged on his gloves and made to throw the water in the basin out, and paused, studying his reflection in the chipped mirror.  He looked much the same as always.  Grey eyes.  Dark hair.  Thin mouth set in a perpetual frown.  Long scar bisecting his face. 

_You killed her mother_ , he thought.  _You gave her to the Pendletons._

He thought of Emily, huddled up and crying against his desk.  Sitting in the skiff, back ramrod straight, studiously not looking at him.  Glancing back at Thomas and Rulfio, there on the balcony. 

_Your story is close to ending, and even you can’t escape it._

No matter.  He was putting things to rights. 

He double-checked one of his pouches to make sure the gift was in place and strode from his room. 

* * *

Corvo woke from another hour-long stretch of sleep when someone nearby started running a bath.  It sounded like a cannon shot, and he lay there with his heart pounding wildly for a few moments while his brain caught up to the fact that he hadn’t been gunned down after all.  He didn’t think the sun had yet risen, but there would be no more rest after _that_ , so he rose and ventured to the bathroom.

He turned the sink tap as high as it would go and stood there with one finger under the water, waiting for it to warm up, as he worked at the snarls in his hair with the other hand.  His eyes felt gritty, so when the water finally shifted from frigid to lukewarm he washed his face, and then reached for the razor before stopping, contemplative. 

Emily had always been a little fascinated with his prickles, as she’d termed it, and sometimes liked to run her curled fingers up his cheek, just to feel.  He wasn’t sure why it was so interesting, but it always made her smile, so he let her. 

He left the prickles alone.

Returning to the bedroom, he opened the dresser and stared at his clothes with no small measure of apprehension.  He’d worn the Whaler uniform for a month now without giving it too much thought—that was what they had, that was what he would wear.  But there were certain memories attached to that uniform, and he had no idea how Emily would respond to seeing it again.  As he dressed, he wished more than ever that his old coat hadn’t been taken from him.  He grabbed Piero’s mask and sword on his way out, attaching both to his belt.

There weren’t many people in the dining room, just one chipper man and his sleepy group of novices, Daud, and Quinn and Arden, who looked very conspiratorial, leaned together and whispering at a table in the corner.  After Corvo got a plate Daud called, “Attano,” and beckoned him over. 

He sat in the empty chair next to him and made himself take a bite of toast, despite having no real desire to eat.  “Hm?” 

“Little Thomas agreed to talk to Emily.  I’ve given him permission to skip lessons if they’re having fun.”  Daud kept his eyes downcast, looking at his coffee. 

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

“It’s nothing.”  Haltingly, he asked, “What does she like to do?”

Corvo looked at him askance, but he was still staring into his mug.  “If she has enough paper and some pencils she’ll happily draw all day.”  He smiled, thinking of times she had done just that.  “She has several dolls, but there’s one—Mrs. Pilsen—she’s always been the favorite.  She loves hide and seek, and tag.  And, Outsider’s eyes, someone taught her to make these paper gliders.  Jess’s room has a balcony that overlooks the entrance hall, and she left her alone there for half an hour one day, and she sent more of those things down on everyone’s heads—” he cut off, laughing.  “She thought it was great fun.”

Daud smiled as well, but it was a little crooked and forced.  “I’m sure she did.”

They both fell quiet, picking halfheartedly at their breakfasts until Daud checked the time and said, “It’s almost seven.”  He and Corvo cleared away their plates—Corvo glad for the excuse to do so. 

“Quinn, let’s go,” he called, and she hurried to catch up, bidding Arden a hasty goodbye. 

One freezing walk to the dock later, they found Samuel and Rulfio cheerfully tearing the skiff’s transmission apart.  Parts were scattered all around them in an arrangement that looked closer to chaos than order, and Rulfio had an impressive smear of grease on his forehead. 

“What’s all this?” Daud shouted.

“Nothing to worry about, sir,” Samuel said.  “Rulfio can take you to pick up the little girl in _Amaranth_ , and I’ll keep working on this while you’re gone.  She’ll be like new in no time.”

“Thank you, Samuel,” Rulfio said, wiping his hands. 

“It’s no trouble.  Just bring Miss Emily back, safe and sure.  Good luck.  I know she must mean a lot to you.”

* * *

The trip upriver seemed to drag on far longer than it should have.  Corvo busied himself adjusting to the mask, testing the different levels of magnification.  Quinn kept checking and rechecking that all her knives were in their places until Daud told her to stop for the sake of his sanity.  He smoked, looking miserable as his nose reddened and his eyes watered from the cold wind.  Rulfio was the only one who seemed remotely relaxed, but he might just have been concentrating on steering the boat. 

Corvo and Daud both told him to stop, _stop_ , at the same time, looking in dismay at the newly-erected watchtower that turned menacingly to and fro. 

“Shit,” Rulfio said.  “I forgot about that.”

But there was a lumpy shape on top that didn’t seem like a part of the thing, and as they watched, it unfolded arms and legs and removed the tank of whale oil, rendering it inert. 

“Hey, that’s Thommy,” Quinn said, and Corvo could hear her smile. 

“Go, before they notice.”  Daud dropped the remainder of his cigarette and ground it out.  Rulfio wasted no time in getting them to the bank, and as soon as he cut _Amaranth’s_ engine, Thomas appeared before them in a flurry of shadows and bowed. 

“Sir, there’s a considerable City Watch presence in the district, though the Overseers have withdrawn to Holger Square for the Feast of Painted Kettles.  Leonid also wanted me to warn you that the Bottle Street gang is acting unusually.”

“What are they doing?”

“They’re looking up.”  Thomas sounded as discomfited as Corvo felt.  In his experience, people never looked _up_. 

Daud frowned.  “Let’s go.”

As it turned out, the Whalers’ safehouse was a vacant apartment sandwiched between the entrance to the Old Dunwall distillery and an art dealer’s house, close to the place Griff had been boarded into.  Leonid was inside, sitting on the floor well away from all the windows. 

“Hello.  We found those,” she said, pointing at a couple of runes, which Corvo took, and a small pile of bone charms.  “And I don’t know what’s gotten into them, but half of Slackjaw’s gang must be at Bunting’s there, and they keep looking at the roofs.  They almost spotted Thomas and I _twice_.” 

Disgraceful.

“Let them see you,” Daud said, readying his wristbow.  Corvo followed suit, and they stood at either side of the window as Leonid walked into place directly in front of it, making no attempts to hide.

“Hey, you!” one of the gangsters shouted.  “Tell your boss Slackjaw wants to talk.” 

Leonid withdrew to stand by Thomas, and Corvo and Daud shared looks of bafflement. 

“What’re you gonna do?” Quinn asked.

“It’s up to you,” Daud said, looking to Corvo, who frowned.  His heart was beating a rapid tattoo of _Emily Emily Emily_ , but pointedly ignoring what amounted to a polite request for a meeting with Slackjaw could turn out badly for them. 

“Let’s see what they want,” he sighed.

Daud nodded, and he and Corvo blinked down to the little yard by the back door, followed by the others.  All the gangsters recoiled, but one of them managed to say, “In ‘ere.  Top floor.”

There, they found a number of men, including Slackjaw himself, gathered around an unopened vault—though it wasn’t shut for lack of trying.  One fellow gripped a crowbar with one end jammed into the seam of the door, red-faced and straining to move it. 

“Enough, enough,” Slackjaw said.  “That won’t get it open.” 

Daud pointedly cleared his throat, affecting one of those shifts in body language again, and he looked every inch the Knife, standing there with his arms crossed, the Whalers fanned out behind him. 

“Daud,” Slackjaw said.  “You people look like you’re out for murder.  Come, let’s talk.” 

He led them downstairs to the remains of the living room, where a large portrait of Sokolov stared down at them all, paintbrush in hand.

“Way I figure it, now that you’ve offed Campbell, there ain’t nobody worth killing ‘round here except those two Pendletons over at the Golden Cat.  I’m right, ain’t I?  See, Slackjaw knows.” 

Corvo shifted uneasily, thinking he might not have given Slackjaw’s mental capacity enough credit for the past several years. 

“They’ve been laying low there awhile, not sure why.  Brought a lot of security with them.  But you’re going to walk in there and kill the Pendleton brothers?  Maybe I got a better way of dealing with them, if you do something for me first.”

“I’m listening,” Corvo said, and Slackjaw seemed to take the split authority in stride. 

“I could get rid of the Pendletons for you, quiet-like and without killing them.  The Golden Cat’s having a big reopening tonight, lot of money clients, including Bunting.  He’s got particular tastes, or so I’ve been told.”  He shrugged.  “Got some pretty fancy stuff locked away upstairs, and the only thing preventing me from nabbing all of it is the combination to his vault.  Bring it to me, my masked friends, and I take care of the Pendleton brothers, just like that.  Now if that ain’t a deal, Slackjaw don’t know what is.”

“And what will you do to them?” 

“See, they’ve got these rock mines.  So I’m going to shave their heads and cut out their tongues and put ‘em in one of their own stinking pits.  Then they’re going to see life from a different angle.”  He reached into one pocket and pulled out a key.  “Take this.  It ain’t for the Golden Cat, no.  It’s for the Captain’s Chair Hotel.  Been abandoned since the plague gutted this part of town.  Take the stairs to the top, you can use the roofs to get into the Golden Cat.”

He accepted it, and they returned to the safehouse.  No one spoke for several minutes, until Corvo pulled the mask off and yanked one hand through his hair, hissing a sigh through his teeth. 

“What do you like?” Daud asked.

“As it is, I favor Slackjaw’s plan.”

“But?”

“Bunting’s probably going to expect a woman,” Corvo said with a wry twist of his mouth.

“I could try.”  Leonid flicked her gaze between them, entirely too sincere. 

“Are you sure?” Thomas asked at once, deeply concerned.

She grimaced.  “I’m not going to enjoy it, but I think I could get the combination out of him.  I certainly won’t make Quinn deal with his _particular tastes_.”  

“Thanks,” she said, pulling a face. 

“And if we do that, we can split up.  You can focus on finding Emily while I deal with Bunting, and we can be in and out faster.” 

Corvo looked at her steadily.  “If you’re sure.”

She nodded.  “I’ll try at the very least.  It’s okay.” 

“Move out,” Daud said, looking grim.  “Keep out of sight.” 

They went, skirting past the City Watch by way of the balconies and air ducts of the houses along Clavering.  In minutes, they were crouched on the same ledge they’d made use of days earlier, looking at the Captain’s Chair across the street, all too aware of the second watchtower.  Why there was another one behind the walls of light, Corvo didn’t know. 

“One at a time,” Daud said.  “Leonid first.”  Corvo passed her the key, and she blinked away and entered the hotel unseen.  “Thomas, then Quinn.”  She slipped inside just before a guard turned around, and Corvo let out a breath, trying to will some of the tension out of his muscles.  “Rulfio, go.”  Daud turned to him.  “After you.” 

He went inside and drew up short, because everyone stood in a frazzled clump, rat corpses strewn everywhere.  The peculiar whale oil stink hung in the air. 

“He couldn’t have told us about the fucking _rats!_ ” Quinn shrieked at a whisper, brandishing her knife. 

“What happened?” Daud demanded, locking the door behind himself.

“Place was infested, but we took care of it,” Rulfio said, gesturing broadly at the floor.  “No one’s hurt.”

Daud grunted and hurried everyone up the stairs, and they emerged onto the roof.  The Golden Cat squatted before them, incongruously opulent amid the brown brick buildings. 

Corvo’s hands started to shake as his heartbeat kicked up a few notches.  Emily was there, she was in there, he would see her so, so soon—and that thought filled him with as much anxiety as it did relief, his mind running circles like a terrier around _what if what if what if._

_What if the Pendletons had hurt her—_

_What if she was too scared of Daud and the Whalers—_

_What if his own daughter was a stranger to him—_

He was so focused on his own thoughts he almost didn’t hear Daud saying his name and spooked when he did.  “What?”

“We’ll stay here and wait for you,” Daud said, looking anywhere but at him and struggling to light a cigarette in the stiff breeze.  It finally caught, and he took a deep, forceful drag, extracting a bone charm from one of his pouches.  “Here.  Good luck.”

It was the same one Corvo had picked up the last time they were in the district, the quiet and sneaky one.  He nodded and tucked it away, snug in an inside pocket.  Then he and Leonid faced the Golden Cat and blinked away across the roofs, entering through a window whose shutter swung wide.  Leonid squeezed his arm gently before taking off in search of Bunting. 

It was oppressively warm inside the Cat, making Corvo faintly nauseous.  He pushed his mask up, taking gulps of the cooler air wafting in as he pulled the Heart from his coat.

“Jess, darling,” he breathed, holding her close to his face, “Where is she?”

_She has tried to escape twice.  Now the madame keeps the door locked_ , she whispered.

A key, then.  He needed a key.  “Thank you.”

How like Emily, he thought as he blinked toward the front desk, to not just stage one escape attempt, but two.  Perhaps she was alright.

* * *

Leonid crouched on the decorative iron… trellis?  Pergola?  _Thing_ as she waited for a guard to finish his drink.  He sipped at it like he had all the time in the world, oblivious to Leonid’s sweaty presence.  She wished she could take something, anything, off.  Though maybe she could undo a couple of buttons, get a bit of a breeze on her neck, except—

He finally started to amble off, and she didn’t know whether to curse him or thank him. 

She transversed down and slipped into the Silver Room, quick as a wink, turned around, and froze, looking at the _contraption_ —there was no other word for it. 

“Betty?” Bunting said.

_Why?_

* * *

Corvo rocked back on his heels.  There was nothing useful at the front desk, other than several pouches of money and a guest ledger that confirmed what he already knew—the Pendletons were in. 

But to his left was a door marked “personnel only” that looked promising.  The rooms on the other side of it looked completely different, all bare walls and scuffed floors and flickering lights—and it was wonderfully, blessedly cooler.  He crept along, scarcely daring to breathe.  _If only I could see_ , he thought, as he shifted the Heart to his right hand, and on instinct, waved his left in front of his face. 

The world immediately washed in sepia, the walls appearing as little more than ghostly impressions.  He could make out shivery orange silhouettes—women, moving about in the other rooms, the round-shouldered shape of a guardsman looking at a plate of fruit, a thin, brittle-postured figure on the floor above. 

As he looked at her, the Heart whispered, _She learned long ago not to grow fond of any of the girls.  When they die, she throws them in the river._

So, there she was.  Corvo eased up the stairs, wincing at every creak, though no one seemed to care about the sound.  The madame herself didn’t even notice when he opened her door and crossed the room to put her in a chokehold.  He had no desire to murder an old woman, even one as horrid as she. 

She struggled fruitlessly and sagged a few moments later.  He let her drop, rather less gently than he would have if she were, say, Jess’s old governess, took her key, and pocketed a few more coins on his way out. 

* * *

Daud lit yet another cigarette with shaking fingers even as he mentally berated himself for burning through the better part of half the pack over the course of the morning alone.  He just couldn’t _settle_.  Though no one else seemed to be faring any better, he thought, as he probed at the empty place where one of his molars used to sit with his tongue. 

“Quinn, _stop_ ,” Rulfio said, in response to her trying to gouge rude graffiti into the roof tiles with a knife, making a horrible screeching racket.

“Sir,” Thomas said, pointing at a shape climbing out one of the Golden Cat’s windows. 

Leonid transversed across the rooftops towards them, seeming no worse for wear.  “That was… uncomfortable,” she said, giving Thomas a quick hug in greeting.  “But the combination’s 696.”

“And you’re alright?”  Thomas held her by the shoulders at arms’ length, assessing. 

“Just fine,” she said softly, and pulled him back in.   

Daud nodded, distracted.  “Masks off,” he ordered, willing his voice into compliance.  It wouldn’t do to greet Emily with nothing more than blank glass stares.  She might be more at ease if she could see everyone’s faces.

* * *

Corvo hurried up the last flight of stairs, heart in his throat.  There were only two people on this floor—a woman, a worker—he dispatched her with a dart and laid her on the bed to sleep it off—and a smaller person, sitting on the floor, just the way Emily always did.

He forced himself to take a minute and compose himself outside her room, taking off the mask, finger-combing his hair back into something close to normal, trying to coax his heart into slowing down, just a little. 

Then he unlocked the door and knocked. 

“Hello?” Emily said, and he had to fight to keep from slamming it open like a lunatic. 

“Corvo?” she said, disbelieving.  “ _Corvo, it’s you!_ ”  She ran at him as he dropped to his knees, flinging her arms around his neck, and he hugged her tight, unable and unwilling to keep a smile from breaking across his face as the room blurred into colors and light.  He took a deep, shuddery breath and let himself relax, swaying gently back and forth, humming a soft sound into her hair. 

She pulled back, keeping her hands on his shoulders as she said excitedly, “I’ve been waiting for you, they—they told me you were in prison, dead, like Mother, but I didn’t believe them, I _knew_ you’d find me, I _knew_ it!  And I know how to get out of here, I almost escaped, twice!” 

Corvo’s smile went wobbly and he pulled her back to his chest, resting his cheek on the crown of her head.  He wanted to scream.  He wanted to howl and bring ruination down upon everyone that had plotted against his family.  He wanted to hold Emily tight and never let her go again. 

“I missed you,” he whispered. 

“I missed you too.  I love you, Corvo.”

“I love you too.”  He gave her one more squeeze and pulled away, shucking off his jacket.  She would need it outside.  “Here,” he said.  It practically swallowed her, but it was much warmer than the summer outfit she still wore.  “Climb onto my back.”

That felt a bit awkward for some reason, different, and he realized with a pang that she’d grown taller. 

“There’s a special exit, for special people, downstairs,” she said as he put his mask on.  “Are you wearing that so you can sneak around?” 

“Yes.”  He opened one of the shutters.  “And I have a better way, but you need to be quiet.”

“Okay.”  She tucked her face into the crook of his neck against the wind. 

He’d debated with himself on the wisdom of doing this—knowing that he bore the Outsider’s Mark could be dangerous for Emily once things were back to normal—but ultimately, there was no way to hide heresy from her at the Flooded District.  It just couldn’t be done.  With that in mind, he clenched his fist and blinked.  Emily gasped when he landed but, to her credit, made no other sound. 

Things started to go downhill when he reached the Whalers.

_“Corvo!_ ” she hissed, arms tightening around him.  “It’s _him_ , he’s the one that killed Mother!”  She thrashed, coming perilously close to unbalancing him. 

He shifted her such that she rested on his hip, murmuring, “I know, I know.  It’s alright.”  She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to protest that it most certainly was _not_ , and he shushed her.  “Emily, listen to me.  I promise I’ll explain everything, but we _have_ to get somewhere safe first.  Trust me, it’s alright.” 

Her eyes started welling, but she said, “Okay.”

Corvo glanced at Daud, but he seemed very intent on examining his boots.  “Let’s go,” he said roughly, and fairly fled into the Captain’s Chair.  At the bottom of the stairs, he unlocked the door and left his hand on the knob, saying, “Attano, you go first.  I can stop time, you’ll have about ten seconds.  Everyone else, follow him.  I’ll be right behind you.”

* * *

Attano nodded, shifting Emily a little higher on his back.  Daud dragged his hand _down_ , leaching all the color out of the world, and flung the door open, watching as everyone ran out like racehorses out of the gate. 

He gritted his teeth—transversing now was going to be an absolute _bitch_ —and followed them, weaving around the guards in the street, keeping an eye on everyone else.  Attano made it onto the duct across the street just fine, as did Leonid and Thomas, and Quinn elected to go up and perch on a streetlight.  Daud turned and transversed up onto an air unit on the hotel, to spare the others some space and had to watch as Rulfio stepped on a patch of ice. 

It was small, only a puddle in a dip in the street that had frozen overnight.  But it was precisely big enough that when Rulfio tried to take another stride, he slipped, and went sprawling onto the cobbles just as time resumed. 

_“Assassin!”_ someone shouted, the guards drew their swords, their pistols—Rulfio stayed curled on the ground— _get up, get up_ , Daud thought, frantically—and the Whalers sprang into action. 

Leonid took off, Emily in tow, before anyone saw her and reached an unfortunate conclusion.  Quinn plummeted from the streetlight and slammed one man’s head on the pavement, then turned and sent a dart into the one behind her.  Thomas alighted beside Daud for just a moment, then carried onward to disable the watchtower. 

Daud transversed to street level, grabbing Rulfio roughly, making him cry out, and hauled him to the Captain’s Chair roof, passed him off to Thomas, and then they were gone, leaving Attano, Quinn, and him to deal with the City Watch. 

He joined the fray, trying to ignore the burning cold reaching fingers up his arm.  He couldn’t afford to take a rest now.  And yet more and more guards kept coming from both ends of Clavering, doing their best to pin and overwhelm them. 

Quinn ran past him, but he grabbed her arm, told her to get out, because there were too many.  Too many to subdue without killing them all.  He turned to tell Attano the same, and found him dueling three men at once, sword a whirlwind.  But when a fourth joined in, he moved backward with that strange blue transversal of his and raised his left hand, fumbling oddly.

He was reaching blindly for a power he didn’t know yet, Daud could see it.  He’d only done that once and had ended up flat on his back with an armload of angry wolfhound after using tethering for the first time. 

(Though he would never admit it, he privately thought Attano cut an impressive figure, standing tall with his sword high, hand flaring bright blue and gold, all his dark hair falling around the mask.)

“ _Corvo_ ,” he bellowed, intending to tell him _no_ , or _get out_ , or something to that effect, but he didn’t get the chance, because in the next instant there were _rats_ boiling out of the street itself, a whole swarm of them, coats gleaming in the sun.  As one, they ran at the guards and overwhelmed them in a horrible, heaving mass.  The men went down screaming, and Corvo stood there, frozen. 

That just wouldn’t do.  Daud transversed closer, slung an arm around him, and moved onto the roof, where he was shaken off, and they both fled over the wall of light and made it as far as Bunting’s balcony before Corvo stopped and retched. 

Nothing came up, but he stayed leaning over, shaking and holding the railing in a vise grip.  Daud let him, still feeling off-kilter from drawing on the Mark so much, so fast and from the discovery that Corvo could summon a horde of angry _rats_.  But eventually he pulled a handkerchief out and wiped his mouth.  Straightened.  Put his mask back on. 

“I need to get back to Emily,” he said softly. 

“She’ll be at the safehouse.”  They all ought to be.  Rulfio wasn’t seriously hurt, he told himself, he’d probably just sprained or strained something.  He was fine. 

Just down the street, Daud heard everyone before he saw them, Rulfio exclaiming, “It _hurts!_ ” 

The apartment was an absolute mess.  It really wasn’t meant to accommodate that many people, especially when there was almost no furniture.  Rulfio was laid out on the floor, Thomas crouched beside him, trying to assess how hurt he was, and Quinn sat on the windowsill, nervously jiggling her leg.  Daud almost shouted at them to get themselves in order, but then he saw Emily huddled up on the only bed, knees drawn up to her chest, tears sliding down her face.  Leonid sat beside her, offering what comfort she could.

His chest went suddenly, painfully tight, and the words stuck in his throat. 

Corvo stepped out from behind him, and Emily lunged for him, leaping over Rulfio on the way.  They hugged, and she started to cry in earnest as he murmured into her hair.  Daud looked away. 

“Rulfio, can you walk?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” he grunted.  “I fell right on my kneecap, it hurts like a—” he glanced at Emily.  “Like a very impolite word.”

“Take them when they’re ready to go,” he said, jerking his head at Corvo and Emily.  “I’ll meet you back home.” 

And he left, not bothering to check if anyone followed him.  It was a long trek back to Rudshore, but he didn’t mind.  Emily wouldn’t want to endure another boat trip with him.  

He suddenly felt a fool for getting the little gift.  She wouldn’t want to interact with him long enough to get it, and he wasn’t going to make her (an absurd image of one the jokers, perhaps Arden, saying _take the fucking present_ crossed his mind). 

But at least Emily was out of the Lord Regent’s reach.  That was good.  That was progress. 

He reached the Flooded District entirely too soon and trudged to his room, bone tired despite the early hour.  He sat heavily on his bed and stared unseeing at the floorboards. 

And he allowed himself two minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Emily! 
> 
> thanks so much for all the comments and kudos!


	9. Chapter 9

Corvo watched Daud leave—no, _run away_ —with a frown.  His strange, stilted behavior (and the suspected cause) hadn’t gone unnoticed, and he didn’t have the words to name how that made him feel.  But that could wait.  Emily was crying into his waistcoat with short, hitching, frightened sobs as he slowly swayed back and forth, murmuring soothing nonsense into her hair. 

“Thomas, I’m fine, you can stop fussing.”  Rulfio sat up with a groan.  “Besides, we need to go before the Watch gets its wits about it.  Are you ready?” 

Corvo nodded.  “Did you get the safe combination?”

“It’s 696.  Thomas and Quinn can come with me to tell Slackjaw, and we’ll follow Daud home,” Leonid said, and pulled her mask on. 

“Alright.  Emily, it’s time to leave,” Corvo said, gently trying to pry her off. 

“Where are we going?”  She sniffed, wiping her eyes with the cuffs of his jacket.

“To the old financial district.  Come on, I need to carry you again.”

Thomas and Corvo heaved Rulfio off the floor and they made it to the skiff without incident—all the guards were still occupied cleaning up the mess further down Clavering.  As soon as they set off down the river, Emily climbed into Corvo’s lap and buried her face in the crook of his neck.  He wrapped his arms around her and tried in vain to think of something to say.  If things hadn’t gone the way they had, he would point out the heron standing by the shore, or the fish that slapped its tail on the water, the turtle ponderously swimming along, or any number of small, interesting things. 

He suddenly wished Jess were there with an intensity that hurt, and hugged Emily closer as they traveled down the river in silence.  She stopped shaking after about seven or eight minutes but didn’t say a word when they arrived at the Flooded District, or when Rulfio bid them goodbye and limped off to see Montgomery, or when she and Corvo climbed the many, many stairs to his—their—apartment.  _Please say something_ , he thought.  _Please_. 

She finally spoke after she flopped on the couch with a deep sigh.  “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll fix you something.”  He went into the kitchen and made Emily’s favorite snack—a butter and entirely too much jam sandwich.  Just putting the two halves of it together made some dribble out the sides. 

Ordinarily he would’ve liked to give her something with a little less sugar and a little more nutritional value, but she’d had a very trying time the past several months.  They both had.  Besides, she smiled a little when she saw it and scarfed it down with enthusiasm.  When she licked the last of the jam off her fingers, she fixed him with a very serious look and said, “You promised to explain everything.” 

“I did,” he said, trying not to give the impression he was facing a firing squad—Outsider’s _eyes_ , it was going to be hard.  But he steeled himself and told the whole rotten tale from the beginning—going to Coldridge (“That’s why you don’t have your regular clothes, isn’t it?” Emily asked.  Yes, it was, and please don’t interrupt, he replied.), being broken out by the Whalers, accepting their help, that first, tense conversation with Daud—there he had to backtrack and explain that everything had stemmed from Burrows’ plot, that Daud was only the knife in his hand—stealing Campbell’s journal, going to rescue her.  He glossed over the torture, his and Daud’s fight, and Campbell’s and the Pendletons’ fates.  Those weren’t things she needed to hear, not then. 

It took much longer than he thought it would have, and by the end he felt oddly hollow and scraped out.  He hadn’t spoken that much on one stretch in months.  Emily sat at the other end of the couch, her mouth a tight, unhappy line. 

“He killed Mother,” she said accusingly, as though Corvo had somehow forgotten that.

“I know.  He didn’t want to,” he said, and winced inwardly.  Like _that_ was going to make it any better. 

“Then why did he _do_ it?” she burst out, frustrated, struggling to understand a situation with far more shades of grey than any child should have to deal with. 

“He cares for the Whalers a great deal, and Burrows threatened them.  I trust him,” he said gently, only realizing that was true when the words left him.  Daud had probably saved his life just a few hours before, and he only realized then that he had complete faith that he would do so again, should the need arise.

_“How?”_

Oh, how he wished Jess were there, with all her diplomatic training.  He didn’t know how to explain that in a city where people killed for fame and power, personal advancement, and the resolution of petty squabbles every day, he’d come to trust a man who only carried out the deed in their name for money and the protection of those he cared about.  And he certainly couldn’t tell her that he’d been influenced in large part by the conversation he’d had with the Heart at the Greaves Refinery. 

“He’s earned it,” he said, uselessly. 

She frowned and glared at the floor, her chin wobbling, and Corvo started to flounder.  “Em, look at me.  I won’t ask you to be his friend.  If you never even speak to him, that’s fine with me.”  He drew in a fortifying breath.  “But I am going to ask you to forgive him.”

“Have _you?_ ” she snapped immediately, staring at him incredulously, and he had to squash his first impulse to scold her.

“I’m trying to.”  It was an honest answer.  “I’ve spent a month here and he’s done nothing but help me.  And forgiveness isn’t for him, it’s for you.”  Trite, _trite_ , idiotic parroting of things he’d heard years ago and barely paid any attention to, but he couldn’t stand the thought of Emily growing cold and bitter, weighed down by anger.  

She dug her knuckles into her eye, rubbing, and tugged off her headband.  She sat there for a long minute, looking at the rug.  Finally, she said, her voice thick, “I just want Mommy back.”

“I know,” he whispered.  “I do too.” 

Then she leaned into Corvo and sagged against him, out of tears. 

* * *

Daud didn’t eat lunch. 

He stayed on his bed and tried to read but gave up when his mind kept wandering to thoughts of Emily and Corvo and a sick sort of shaky feeling that revolved around them both, then tried to write in his sorely-neglected logbook but gave up when that did nothing but encourage the wandering thoughts to intrude further, and in more detail.  Void.      

“Dearest Daud?” 

He smoothed his hair back, tugged his gloves back on, and strode to the railing to find Montgomery standing by his desk, looking up at him with her hands on her hips. 

“What do you need?” he asked, still trying to get the image of Emily crying out of his head and hoping he looked steadier than he felt.

“Can I not come visit to talk?”  She frowned at him.  “I wanted to ask if you’d like to make use of my sofa for the night, there’s a truly hideous cloud bank coming in and _this_ ,” she gestured expansively at the ceiling, “is more hole than timber.”  When he didn’t immediately speak, she said, “Please do, you’d scare Piero off.  He’s made camp in the infirmary and keeps trying to discuss some theory about subjecting people to immense pressure until they start producing “high energy humors” like whales, as though that isn’t an egregious violation of every kind of ethics.  He can _not_ move out fast enough.” 

“Piero’s afraid of me?” 

“Oh, terribly,” she said, walking up the stairs.  “Though he likes to pretend he isn’t.  So, what’ll it be, hmm?”  She nudged him with her elbow.  “We can’t have you freezing to death in your bed.  Honestly, I fear for your health.  I worry you’ll suffer from the damp here.” 

“The damp never hurt anyone.”

“Debatable.  Is something the matter?  You’re awfully subdued.”  Montgomery studied him closely, head tilted. 

That was the trouble with keeping a friend for a long time, Daud thought.  They grew more perceptive than you always wanted them to be.  He shook his head.  “I’m fine.”

“Daud, I’ve known you fourteen years, I can tell when you’re upset.”  She leaned back, her appraising look shifting to realization.  “It’s Emily, isn’t it?  Rulfio said he hurt himself while you were out picking her up.” 

Much more perceptive.  “How is he?” he asked, and suddenly had a terrible realization.  “ _Shit_ , I forgot to tell Slackjaw the safe combination, I need to—”

She caught his wrist before he could summon Leonid, Quinn, anyone, saying, “They’re responsible, I’m sure they passed it along.  And Rulfio’s in one piece, though I can’t tell if his kneecap is fractured or not.  I have him laid up with a splint until I know for sure, but don’t change the subject.  What’s wrong?”

He crossed his arms and sighed, trying to make himself look as closed-off as possible, but Montgomery just leaned on the railing and relaxed, willing to wait to hear the problem.  When she looked like that, there would be no deterring her from extracting the whole miserable mess from him piece by piece, so he finally spoke. 

“She’s terrified of me,” he said hollowly, and barked a mirthless laugh.  “I don’t know what I expected, I killed her mother in front of her.”  He could see Montgomery’s expression softening dangerously and soldiered on.  “I bought her a gift.  Hoped it might help her be more comfortable here, but—” he cut off, clenching his jaw.  “I won’t be able to look her in the face long enough to give it to her, not that she’d want anything to do with me.  I’m a thrice-damned _fool_.”

“Oh, Daud,” she murmured, and then she wrapped him in a fierce hug without warning.  He thought she said _submit_ into his collarbone and huffed out a breath, smiling a bit despite himself.  When she stepped back she told him, “You need to speak to Lord Attano about this.”

“Corvo’s busy,” he said, ignoring the way Montgomery’s eyebrows rose.  “Besides, what could I possibly say to him?”

“A great number of things, not least of which being you got Emily a present.  He could tell you if it would be welcome or not.”

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” he said.  “I need to make plans to follow up on Barrister Timsh and work out how to hit the Lord Regent next, if I can remember who his lover is—”

“No,” Montgomery said firmly.  “I’ll not have you isolate yourself here and _strategize_ and be rained on and catch your death.  You’ll come with me and drive Piero away.  We’ll have a lovely evening reading together, and after dinner, which you will eat, you’ll refuse more than one blanket for the sofa, as you always do, and you will _sleep_ , and tomorrow you’ll complain of a kink in your neck, as you always do.  Then I will let you go, and tend to Rulfio, and then you may do whatever you like.” 

Again, one corner of Daud’s mouth lifted despite his poor spirits.  “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I’ve learnt I have to, you’re awfully resistant to sense sometimes.  Come on.  We’ve a natural philosopher to frighten.”

* * *

Eventually Emily fell asleep, lulled by Corvo’s steady breaths and the beat of his heart.  He kept his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the cushion, wishing he could follow her—at a guess, he’d slept no more than four hours the night before—but his mind refused to stop turning. 

He couldn’t stop looping back to the rats.  The blink, the vision, even Daud’s way of stopping time, he could deal with.  Those seemed relatively normal, where gifts given by the whale god of the Void were concerned.  But the _rats_ , big, sleek, hungry things that they were, were another matter entirely.  They’d bubbled out of the empty air and borne two guards to the ground while he stood there like a lump, thinking _what have I done?_  

The guards had probably died.  Granted, they’d have had no compunctions with killing Corvo, likely would’ve bragged about it after receiving their officer’s posts, but no one deserved an end like that. 

And Daud had swooped in and saved him when he froze—slung an arm tight around his waist and hauled him up to safety. 

He hadn’t wanted Corvo to come to harm.

That thought caused a bright flare of warmth in his chest.  What he’d told Emily was true, somewhere along the way he’d learned to trust Daud with his _life_ , as absurd as that would have sounded just a month ago.  He just hoped Daud shared similar sentiment toward him, because (and this made Corvo regard himself with no small measure of astonishment) he would pull Daud from the fire, if the need arose. 

He laughed once, marveling at himself, and jostled Emily, who made a soft sound in protest but remained asleep.  Her hair was mussed, her lips slightly parted.  Her breath was making an unpleasantly humid patch on Corvo’s shirt, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“I love you,” he whispered, just because she was there, and he could, and smiled at her until she went blurry and he had to blink rapidly to clear his vision.  

Void, he was so glad to have her back. 

He’d have to come up with some way of letting Daud know that, of thanking him for everything.  Corvo frowned.  He’d acted so _strange_ all morning, stilted and distant, and looked at Emily almost like he was afraid of her.  He still didn’t know what words described how he felt about that. 

Tomorrow.  He’d hunt Daud down and talk to him about it tomorrow. 

He must’ve dozed off at some point, because next he knew he was blinking awake, roused by knocking at the door.  Emily lifted her head from his shoulder and looked around in confusion, afflicted with the peculiar post-nap grogginess.  Corvo crossed to do the door and opened it to find Leonid and Thomas standing there with armloads of things.

“Hello,” Leonid said brightly.  “I found Emily some changes of clothes.  It might all be a little big, so if she needs anything altered, let me know and I’ll work on it for you.  It’s just what the novices wear, but that’s all we have.”

“It’s fine,” Corvo said, accepting the jacket and shirts and trousers and boots.  “Thank you.”

“I got her a hairbrush, I couldn’t remember if we gave you one already or not, and a couple of nightgowns, and some of the soaps and such the other girls like; that’s all in the bag.”  The bag which was then passed off to Corvo, who took it rather bemusedly, beginning to wonder if Leonid had been the one to stock the apartment. 

She clapped her now-empty hands together and clasped them in front of herself.  “I think that should be enough for a few days at least.  Is there anything else you can think of?”

He glanced back at Emily, who was peering over the back of the couch, eyeing Leonid and Thomas with some measure of dismay.  “I’m sure she’d like paper and crayons.  And—is there a doll she could borrow, at least?”

“She can have my next journal, it’s meant to be a sketchbook anyway,” Thomas said. 

Leonid nodded, thinking.  “I’m not sure about crayons, but I could get pencils.  And I have an idea for a doll, I’ll be right back.” 

Corvo and Thomas both watched her take off at high speed before Thomas said, “I’ll get the sketchbook,” and followed her. 

True to her word, she was back within minutes, a small Pandyssian koala toy in one hand.  It looked old and well-loved and bore the signs of several repairs. 

“May I give her to her?” she asked, almost nervous.  Corvo nodded and let her through the door.  She sat down on the couch opposite Emily.  “This is Beatrix,” she said, straightening one of the toy’s large, round ears.  “My parents made her and gave her to me when I was younger than you are now.  She isn’t a doll, but if you’d like, you can keep her for a while.  She’s very special to me, so please be careful with her if you do.” 

Emily sat there a moment, clearly torn between wanting the koala and distrusting Leonid, before delicately reaching out and taking Beatrix.

“Emily, what do you say?” Corvo asked. 

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Leonid smiled.  “You’re welcome.”  She rose and stood next to him.  “We were about to get dinner; would you like us to bring you anything?”

“Yes, please.”  Emily would undoubtedly rather stay in and have a quiet evening than go to the dining hall and be surrounded by Whalers.  Leonid and Thomas excused themselves with the promise to return bearing food, and Corvo reached for the closest pile of clothing with the intent to move it to Emily’s room when she spoke up.

“I think I remember her,” she said, studying Beatrix.  “She’s nice.”

“She is, isn’t she?” he said, trying to keep everything from falling. 

Once he and Emily got everything put away, the evening passed quickly with dinner and a bath for Emily—she stayed quiet for a suspiciously long time after the splashing sounds stopped, so he knocked at the bathroom door and asked if she was alright.  A plaintive voice said _I’m cold_.  Corvo peered in to find her still damp, wrapped in a towel, and sitting on the floor in a sad lump.  _Dry off and you’ll be warmer_ , he said. 

Her nightgown was too long, and she had to pick up the hem to keep from tripping, but she just pretended she was in a fancy dress, so it was alright.  While she was busy cleaning her teeth, Corvo quickly changed into his nightclothes.  Generally, he didn’t wear a shirt to bed, but the briefest moment’s consideration had him reaching for one with long sleeves.  Just as he finished adjusting the hem around his hips, Emily came bursting in, proclaiming herself ready for bed. 

“Come on then,” he said, and tucked her in.  “I’ll see you in the morning.  I love you.”

“I love you too.”  She wormed up into his lap for a hug, and he kissed her forehead.  “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Em.”

* * *

At some point, Corvo was awoken by a small hand patting his shoulder. 

“What is it?” he mumbled, groggy.

“I couldn’t sleep.”  Emily stood by the bed, clutching Beatrix.  He couldn’t see her expression in the dark, but her voice sounded a little quivery. 

“Mm.  Come here.”  He drew the covers back and let her climb in beside him.  She was getting too old for that, really, but under the circumstances, he was willing to indulge her.  “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she said, sounding much happier already, and they drifted off as rain pounded against the roof. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed!


	10. Chapter 10

“Corvo.  Coooorvo.” 

“Mmm,” he grumbled, but didn’t open his eyes.

“ _Corvo_ , wake up.”  Hands grasped him by the upper arm and shook him. 

“What time is it?”  He stretched and rubbed the grit from his eyelashes.

“Eight o’clock,” Emily said cheerfully.  “Time for you to get out of bed.” 

Too right, it was already later than he usually let himself sleep.  He sat up and pushed his hair back.  “How long have you been awake?” 

Emily shrugged.  “Not very long.  I got hungry and woke up.”  She smiled and petted his cheek.  “You’re prickly.” 

“Very,” he agreed.  “Do you want to have breakfast here or go to the dining hall?”  She frowned and looked away, thinking hard.  “If we eat here, I have to go and bring the food back.”  He’d not had the foresight to properly stock the pantry, and toast and jam alone did not a true breakfast make. 

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. 

“I’ll get ready while you decide.”  He shooed her out, saying, “Wash your face and brush your hair while I get dressed.” 

That meant he’d have to be careful while shaving and not make a mess out of his shirt’s high collar, but the sooner he had on all the layers of the Whaler uniform, the better.  Emily had very nearly seen his skin the night before, and he didn’t want to take any chances.  He was relieved to hear the pipes start their usual thumping and groaning as he pulled on his pants.  

But when he emerged from his room, Emily was no longer in the bathroom.  Or on the couch, for that matter, or in the kitchen.  Corvo found her in her own room, clothes laid out on the bed, about to start getting dressed herself. 

“I want to go,” she said, determined.  “Do you think Leonid will be there?”

“I think so.”  Surely she would be, she was always at breakfast.  “I’ll be in the bathroom if you need me.”

“Okay,” she said, pulling on her socks. 

As he shaved, Corvo tried to squash his worry—there would be a lot of people at the dining hall, though at least they wouldn’t have their masks on—and Daud seemed to be as firm a believer in the value of breakfast as he was.  Perhaps they could sit toward the edge of the room, as he’d done the first few days, and if worst came to worst they could probably beat a hasty retreat without drawing too much attention. 

It had to be a good sign, though, that Emily was willing to venture out of the apartment so soon. 

She appeared in the doorway, slightly hunched and tugging ferociously on something at her middle, right about the time he wiped his face.  “I need help,” she grunted.  “I can’t buckle it.” 

She gave up with a frustrated sigh, holding out the belt that would hold her jacket closed.  It was thick, heavy, stiff leather, the kind of thing that wouldn’t have been out of place in horse tack, and brand new.  No wonder she’d had trouble.  Corvo knelt before her to help.  It took some work, but they managed to get it straightened out. 

“Let’s go,” he said, standing, and she slipped her hand in his as they walked down the stairs.  Once they were outside, he had Emily climb on his back again for the sake of speed and blinked across the district. 

The dining hall was, predictably, in a state of happy chaos, and Emily shrank against his side as he looked across the room, trying to find an empty table.  He saw someone waving out of the corner of his eye and turned to find Leonid by herself in one corner, grinning.  She beckoned, and Corvo steered Emily over to her.

“Good morning,” she said.  And to Emily, “How’d you sleep?”

She shrugged and sat down.  “I was glad I had Beatrix.”

“Then I’m glad I let you keep her.  Have you drawn anything?”

“Not yet.  I brought the sketchbook though,” she said fairly cheerfully, pulling it and a stubby pencil from one pocket. 

“I’m going to get you a plate, I’ll be right back,” he said, squeezing Emily’s shoulder briefly and made his way to the kitchen.  There, he ran into both Thomas and Little Thomas, the latter telling the former that the coffee was not done, and he would just have to wait. 

“What was wrong with the other pot?” 

“ _Some_ one,” Little Thomas griped, “left it on the stove too long.  It wasn’t worth drinking and I threw it out.”

“Can you not turn the heat higher, make it go faster?” 

_“No.”_   He looked scandalized.  “Then it would boil, we’d be right where we started.”

Corvo left them to their discussion and started gathering foodstuffs, and after the somewhat perilous journey back to the table, found Emily and Leonid playing naughts and crosses with looks of equal intense concentration. 

“Who’s winning?” he asked, setting down the plates.

“At the moment, neither of us.”  Leonid surrendered the pencil ruefully.  “Someone’s awfully good at this.”

Emily grinned, gleeful at depriving Leonid of victory, and made another mark in the grid. 

“Eat your breakfast,” Corvo reminded, remembering all the times something had caught her attention and sent her running off to investigate, food abandoned and forgotten.  She pouted a bit but put the pencil down all the same and started working at a sausage. 

“We can play more after you eat.  I could even get out the checkers set if you’d like.”  Thomas came and sat down beside Leonid, and they linked hands. 

They all ate in silence a little while, Emily apparently trying to get done with her food as fast as possible, so she could get back to drawing.  Corvo just looked out over the room, taking everything in. The racket was pleasant in its own way, he thought, once one grew used to it. 

A girl about Emily’s age, perhaps a little older, went sprinting away from a corner, doing an admirable job of dodging the obstacles in her path, a many-colored something grasped in one hand.  A scarf, Corvo realized, and an unfinished one, though he didn’t think she’d yet used the same yarn twice.  She excitedly crashed into Daud from behind, already talking.  He tensed, then relaxed, and twisted in his chair to look at it, nodding at whatever she was saying.  Then he smiled, crows’ feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and reached out in an attempt to ruffle the girl’s hair.  She dodged him with a squawk and ran off to whence she came, scarf streaming behind her.  Daud glanced over toward Corvo, and while he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he looked not at him, but just to the side, at Emily.  His expression shifted oddly, and he looked away.

And several things suddenly made sense at once.

Corvo could have gone careening around the dining hall, pulling his hair and cursing his own willful ignorance—it was willful ignorance, he just hadn’t wanted to see what was right in front of him all along—but he couldn’t without looking like he’d lost it right there in the middle of breakfast, so he stayed put. 

_Daud liked children._

Void, that was why there were so many of them all over the place.  Daud wasn’t a nightmarish heretic training an army of unfortunates brought under his supernatural thrall, the way the Abbey always liked to paint him, he just _liked children_ , and Dunwall destroyed parents like no other place in the Empire.  It only made sense that Daud would create something of an orphanage out of the situation, albeit a more violent one than most. 

Then Emily tugged at his sleeve to show him a whale she’d just drawn, and he shook himself out of his thoughts. 

“Very nice,” he said.  It was certainly expressive. 

* * *

As it turned out, Corvo didn’t talk to Daud that day.  Or the day after that.  He meant to on the third day, but just as he was about to try to figure out what Emily could do while he was gone, Leonid came by to see if they needed anything, and while they played checkers and played with Beatrix he got some much-needed cleaning done, so he couldn’t really complain. 

While he was in the bathroom, gathering up the dirty towels, he overheard Leonid say, “I know someone you should meet.  His name is Thomas.  He’s only a little older than you and likes to draw, too.” 

Emily hummed thoughtfully.  “Is he nice?”

“Mhm.  Would you like to talk to him?”

“Maybe.” 

But the _maybe_ turned into _yes_ , and the fourth day found Corvo walking Emily to the archive room (“No one goes in there, they won’t be bothered,” Leonid had said), trying to keep her sketchbook dry, as it was raining.  Again.  But the archives had an entire roof, at least, and were fittingly dusty, and Emily sneezed no less than five times as they walked to the arranged corner, where Little Thomas was drawing, and Leonid was reading. 

She looked up at the sound of their footsteps and smiled.  “Hello.  Emily, this is Thomas.  Thomas, Emily.” 

He said hello, and she waved shyly.  Corvo squeezed her shoulder.  “I’m going to talk to Daud, but I’ll be back soon, alright?  Have fun, be nice.”

She frowned but nodded, still upset they were working together at all, and he wrapped her in a quick hug and left her in Leonid’s capable hands. 

* * *

As it turned out, Daud didn’t talk to Corvo that day.  Or the day after that.  He almost managed it on the third day, but then Rulfio came barreling into his office, hollered that a pipe in the novices’ dormitory building had frozen and burst and was gushing water _everywhere_ , and ran out before remembering that transversals were quicker.  Then he spent the next few hours helping with the thoroughly sodden and freezing cold cleanup while the kids gathered around and asked questions and generally made nuisances of themselves.  After that, he retreated to Montgomery’s place, where he could wrap himself in a blanket and sit in front of the stove in peace.  

But on the fourth day there were no distractions, no emergencies, no reasons at all to not find Corvo and try to talk to him, as Montgomery suggested.  In fact, he had just left his office, having finally mustered the will to meet him face to face, when he came down the hall and brightened visibly at the sight of him. 

“Daud,” he said, walking faster.  “I wanted to talk to you.” 

“And I wanted to talk to you.  We need to plan how to strike at the Lord Regent next.”  If Montgomery had been there, she would have rolled her eyes at him. 

“Of course.”  Corvo nodded.  “I remember you mentioned a lover, but you didn’t know who it is.  That should be our next target.” 

Daud hummed in agreement and shut the office doors behind them, and they hurried to the one dry corner of the room.  “Especially considering he’s probably using her—I’m almost certain he talked about _her_ —to fund the City Watch.”

“She’s undoubtedly a noble, Burrows would never even dream of consorting with someone _below his station_ ,” he said mockingly, leaning against Daud’s desk, “even if her paying off the Watch didn’t rule that out anyway.  How did you find out about her?”

Daud sighed, trying to remember what had happened in as much detail as he could.  “Burrows and Campbell wanted to meet in person to discuss a few things.  I always liked to surprise them when I showed up, just because I could,” he said, and Corvo smirked, “and that time I got on top of a bookshelf before they came in.  And Burrows said _something_ , I remember thinking it was important, but I can’t recall what it was.”  He crossed his arms, frustrated. 

Corvo frowned, appearing deep in thought.  “I’m sure you’ll think of it.  What about Timsh?”

“We’ve been anticipating a hit on him for years, the family’s practically at war with itself.  He won’t tell us anything, I’m sure, but I could send word to his niece, Thalia.  She might know something.”

“But she’ll probably also expect us to kill him.”  Corvo’s frown deepened.  “Timsh wasn’t anyone special a year ago, he mostly pushed paper around and complained.  I wonder what he did to become barrister.”

Daud shrugged.  “Same thing as any of Burrows’ favorites, I’d imagine.”  Agreeing to whatever came out of his mouth and acting like he was the only thing standing between Dunwall and oblivion seemed to work pretty well.    

“Hm, true.  You don’t have anything against breaking contracts, do you?”

“No.  It wasn’t like anyone could take me to court over it.”

Corvo barked a laugh.  “No, I suppose not.  You could always try contacting Thalia, but if we can’t find a way to avoid killing Timsh we can get the information some other way.” 

Daud nodded.  Yes, that might work. 

* * *

Meanwhile, in the archives, Emily looked at Thomas.  He was awfully quiet, but she hadn’t said much either.  She wished she had crayons—the pencil was awfully drab.  Her picture of a pirate ship just wasn’t the same without color, no matter how detailed she made it.  She looked back at Thomas.  His hair was interesting, she decided, sort of brown with bright coppery glints where the sun hit it. 

“What are you drawing?” she asked.  He blinked at her and she hurried to add, “It’s okay if you don’t want to show me, I never let Corvo see until I’m done.” 

He shook his head and slid the paper to her side of the table.  “You can look at it.”

He’d sketched a Morley sheepdog, the kind with the fluffy ruff and the long nose and soft eyes, lovingly rendered in realistic detail.  Its head was tilted charmingly, one ear flopping out to the side. 

“ _Wow_ ,” she said, admiring.  “I wish I could draw like that.”

“I had lessons,” he said, a little shyly, pulling the paper back.

“Lucky.  I just had boring old history, and grammar, and _maths_.”  She pulled a face.  “I tried to ask Dr. Sokolov to teach me to paint one time, but he told me to ask Corvo, and _he_ told me to ask Mother, and she said no because I had my white outfit on and we had to go somewhere later.” 

Thomas nodded, sympathetic, and they went back to drawing.  After a few minutes, he said, “I could try to remember what my tutor said and teach you.”

Emily looked up, eyes wide.  “ _Really?”_

“Sure, come here.”  He motioned her over and she hurried to drag her chair closer to his.  “My tutor said that everyone knows how to draw, it’s just that they don’t know how to see.”

Emily frowned at him.  That didn’t make any sense.  “What?”

“It’s true though,” he said, and launched into an explanation about contour lines while Leonid hid a wide, pleased smile behind her book. 

“I’m going to get myself some tea,” she said, marking her place and standing.  “I’ll be back in just a moment.” 

“Okay,” they said, though she doubted they’d have noticed if she’d just left without a word.  As she walked out, Thomas said, “And you can use your pencil to measure stuff, like this, but it has to be—be perpendicular to the ground, you can’t tilt it like this, or your measurements will be wrong.”  He tried to do a fancy twirling maneuver, just to show off a little, and sent the pencil pinwheeling off to parts unknown.  “Shit.” 

Emily stared at him in amazement as he stood and started to look for it, vanishing behind a shelf.  There was a faint clatter, a scuffling sound, and then, “It’s gone.”

“Do you have another one?”

“No,” he said, frowning and pushing his hair off his forehead.  “But we can go get one.  Follow me.”

* * *

“ _Void_ , if I could just remember what Burrows said,” Daud griped, lighting a cigarette to help himself think.  It had been important, information he’d thought he could use, so of course he’d forgotten it.  He thought back.  He’d been on the bookshelf, listening to Burrows, who’d been bragging, and brought up the lover, mentioned getting a present for her, not that she needed any help affording fancy things, ha ha!  Daud’s lip curled just as it had then, and—

“Sokolov!” he burst out, banging his fist on the desk. 

Corvo raised one eyebrow at him. 

“He commissioned Sokolov to paint her,” he said, more calmly.  “He’ll know who she is.”

Corvo nodded slowly.  “And if we abduct him, the Lord Regent will be short one inventor.”

“Exactly.”  Daud grinned, sharp as a knife, and pulled the map of Dunwall onto his desk.  He tapped the Legal District.  “Timsh lives here.”

“And Sokolov is in the middle of Kaldwin’s Bridge.  We’ll have to take the boat, unless anyone’s keen on carrying him all the way back.” 

“And Rulfio probably won’t be able to take us.”  He frowned.  “We’ll only have one boatman.”

“How is he, by the way?” Corvo asked.

“His kneecap’s fractured.  Montgomery’s got him on rest for a month.”  Highly inconvenient, that, but at least it wasn’t the full six or so weeks someone without a Mark would have to endure. 

“Hmm.  Is he the only one that knows how to drive the skiff?”

Daud shook his head.  “He’s the only one that knows how to fix it.  A patrol ended up stranded one day because it broke down; I haven’t let anyone but him or me take it since.”

“We might have to take care of them on different days, then.  Or,” Corvo tilted his head thoughtfully, “we could split up.”

“Sokolov’s likely one of the most heavily-guarded men in the city, and if anything happened, you’d be on your own.  I’d rather pull one long day than leave that to chance.” 

“We can hardly fit a whole squad _and_ Samuel in one boat, we’d be better served to spread it out over multiple days.” 

Both of them frowned, retreating into their thoughts. 

“Two different groups,” Corvo finally said.  “One in the Legal District, one at the bridge.  You and I deal with Timsh first, then Sokolov.  We won’t be splitting up, and we won’t have to wait for Rulfio to recover.”

“Sokolov is more important—” Daud tried to protest. 

“And Timsh is further upriver.  We can knock Sokolov out, but he won’t stay asleep forever.  Timsh has to be first.” 

It made sense.  It wasn’t like the Legal District and Kaldwin’s Bridge were at opposite ends of the city.  Barring a disaster, it probably wouldn’t even be hard to do both in one day.  Placing two squads would keep anybody from getting too tired, and Samuel could take care of the boat. 

“Alright.  I’ll give everyone their assignments tomorrow, we can go once the rain clears up.”  The office door creaked open and he glanced up to find Little Thomas walking in, closely followed by Emily, who looked scared stiff. 

“Daud,” he said.  “May I have a pencil?” 

“What happened to the last one you had?”  He noted Emily would apparently rather stand in the rain with her hood up than come any closer.  He couldn’t blame her. 

“I lost it.”  He did at least look sheepish. 

“Here.”  There was usually an assortment of pencils and pens rolling around on the desk, so Daud passed him one of the longer ones.  Then, before he could lose his nerve, he opened the drawer and grabbed the present, steeling himself.  Corvo was standing right there, his presence might help Emily feel safer, hopefully safe enough to approach and take her gift.  Though if need be, he could pass it off to Corvo, and he could do whatever he wanted with it. 

“Emily,” he said, trying to fashion his voice into something soft, reaching out and holding it as far away from himself as physically possible.  She would have to come to him to get it, but he knew exactly how badly she might handle him suddenly standing up and looming over her. 

He’d gotten her a pack of crayons—real artists’ crayons with soft wax and bright, vivid colors, even odd ones like mauve and chartreuse.  The tin was a little rusty and had a dent in one corner, but the crayons themselves were in good condition, barely used.  He’d checked. 

She paused, glanced at Corvo, and took a few hesitant steps forward, emotions warring across her face.  Then she looked at Corvo again and bolted the last few paces, snatching the tin and practically dragging Little Thomas out of the room by the hand. 

Daud let out a breath, allowing his shoulders to slump a bit.  There.  He turned to keep talking to Corvo, only to find him just _staring_ at him with a very odd look on his face. 

_Shit_.  He should’ve listened to Montgomery and mentioned it earlier. 

“It isn’t much, but it was the only thing I could think to get her,” he said, trying to backpedal.  “If I’ve overstepped—”

“ _No_.  No, I appreciate the thought,” Corvo said, still looking strange.  “And it’s more than you might think.  Jess and I—we didn’t deprive her by any means, but we didn’t want Emily to grow up thinking she could have anything she wanted just by demanding it.  I think she’s happier for it.” 

Daud nodded, and said, “I ought to check the patrol rosters, see who can be on the squads.” 

Lies.  He already knew who was going. 

But Corvo seemed to believe him and quit leaning on the desk.  Daud tried to make a point of going to the stairs with a purpose, like it made perfect sense that the rosters would be on his bookshelf and not by the desk with everything else, but a voice said _wait_ and a hand caught him by the elbow and held him firmly in place. 

“Thank you,” Corvo said, painfully earnest.  “Emily’s been wanting crayons desperately for days.”

He just dangled there a few moments, trying and failing to think of some conventional, socially-acceptable platitude before deciding honesty was the best policy and saying, “Corvo, you’re the last person that should be thanking me.”

His expression softened even as his brow furrowed.  He said, quietly, “You’re trying.  That’s all I can ask for.” 

Daud swallowed hard and nodded once.  That was all he could manage. 

Then, mercifully, he let him go.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Little Thomas said.  “I should’ve told you we were going to Daud’s office.”

Emily picked a flake of rust off the tin.  They were really very nice crayons.  “It’s okay.” 

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.  “He’s just scary.”  Then she felt a lump coming up in her throat and her eyes prickled, and she couldn’t _cry_ , especially not in front of Thomas, she barely even knew him, and she was _tired_ of crying anyway.

But to her complete surprise, he said, “I was scared of him too.” 

“You were?” 

“Oh yeah, last year.  I thought he looked mean.”

Emily nodded vigorously.  _That_ she could agree with. 

“Come on,” he said, mood shifting suddenly.  “I’m hungry, let’s get a snack.” 

* * *

When Corvo made his way back to the archives, everyone was gone, but he wasn’t worried.  Leonid and Thomas were responsible.  But as he looked over the empty room, he thought it would be terribly convenient if he could do the thing Daud could and just pluck one of them out of the empty air to ask where they’d gone.  Oh well.  He was sure they were fine. 

He actually didn’t see Emily until almost dinnertime, when he went back to the apartment to find her carefully arranging her crayons into a rainbow at the kitchen table.  “There you are,” he said.  “Where’ve you been?”

“With Thomas.”  She exchanged the places of a purple and a slightly bluer purple.

“Did you have fun?”

She nodded.  “He’s really nice.”

“I’m glad.  Do you want to stay here for dinner or go out?”

“Let’s just stay here.”

And later, once the dinner plates were scrubbed and put away and a bath was taken, if Emily left her own bed and cozied up to his side without asking—well, he was very tired.  And if he lay awake a long time, thinking of the look of mutual terror Daud and Emily had given each other and his own increasingly complicated feelings, that was no one’s business but his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can guess what kind of dog Little Thomas was drawing, you get bonus points. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for the comments and kudos!


	11. Chapter 11

Thalia Timsh was in a hurry to be rid of her uncle.  So much so, in fact, that only a day after one of the Whalers slipped Daud’s letter into her post, she’d written out a reply accepting his offer of assistance with that small matter, with instructions to meet at Treaver’s Close the following day. 

That put everyone into a bit of a scramble to get geared up and into position, though Samuel met the sudden demand for passage upriver with enviable calm and just asked where they were going as he pulled on his coat.  Daud felt rather less accommodating and spent the rest of the day stomping about, smoking and grumbling things about rich folk and their lack of consideration for other people’s timetables. 

Which was how Corvo found himself trying to get Emily to hurry, because it was just past one o’clock, Thalia wanted to meet at two, and he still had to drop her off at Montgomery’s place and get to the skiff.  She’d dragged her feet all morning and had to be coaxed into going to lunch, despite having said the day before that she was excited to meet Montgomery, because Leonid had told her all about how nice she was and how well they would get along. 

But she had Beatrix in one pocket, her new crayons and a pencil in another, and the sketchbook in hand.  Corvo thought she was as prepared as he could get her, but all the same he asked, “Do you have everything?”

She nodded but remained silent, picking at a loose thread on her jacket. 

He frowned.  “Can you think of anything else?”

Again, there were no words as she shook her head no. 

He crouched in front of her, starting to get worried.  “Em, what’s wrong?” 

She wouldn’t look at him for several long moments as her chin started to wobble.  She inhaled and exhaled sharply, a frustrated sort of sigh, and mumbled, “I don’t know how to say it.”  He gave her a minute to collect her thoughts, then she said, all in a rush, “I wish Daud hadn’t rescued you, but I _don’t_ , because then you’d still be in prison, and I’d still be at the Golden Cat, and I _like_ Leonid, and I _like_ Thomas, but he killed Mother, and—” She inhaled deeply, making a visible attempt to calm herself. 

“It would’ve been easier if someone else had helped us?” Corvo asked, and Emily nodded, her mouth twisting unhappily.  He gave her a quick, tight hug, and said, “I know how you feel, I do.  And I _have_ to go out today, but if you want to talk this evening when I get back, we can, alright?” 

“Okay.”  She rubbed at her eye, sniffed, and took his offered hand. 

“Come on.  I’m sure Thomas is looking forward to seeing you again.” 

* * *

Daud stood down at the docks, smoking and waiting for Corvo to show up. 

“I’m sure he’ll make it on time, sir,” Samuel said, not looking up from the chunk of wood he was whittling.  It had yet to take any definite form.  “Miss Emily’s probably moving a little slow, is all.” 

Daud only grunted.  He wouldn’t consider himself an impatient person under normal circumstances, but there was no telling what Thalia Timsh might decide to do if they were late.  In theory, if she tried to go anywhere, she would be stopped and told the deal was still on, though in his experience, theory and practice were two very different things indeed. 

So, he smoked. 

When Corvo transversed into view, he jogged over toward the boat, and Samuel beat Daud to any kind of greeting by cheerfully calling, “There you are, sir!  We were starting to wonder about you.” 

“Sorry,” Corvo said, once they were out on the river.  “Emily was having a hard morning.” 

“How is she?”  He could see Corvo look at him out of his periphery and determinedly stared forward, despite the glare coming off the water making his eyes sting. 

“She’s still struggling.”  He sighed, twisting his hands together.  “I don’t think she liked me leaving.” 

The unspoken _with you_ tacked onto the end of that came through loud and clear, though, and Daud looked down at the floor of the boat in silence (Samuel had put in a welcome mat, and after the confusion over its presence wore off, he decided that was very much in-character) until Corvo nudged him with his knee, saying, “Who’s on the squads?”

He cleared his throat.  “Billie, Thomas, and Fisher are at the Legal District, and Arden, Quinn, and Leonid are at the bridge.” 

Corvo nodded and started drumming nonsense patterns into the side of the boat, apparently out of things to say.  Though if he were to be honest, that suited Daud just fine—if he’d kept talking, he might’ve said something stupid that related back to Emily and her extremely reasonable resentment of him, and then he’d just be stuck there with Corvo angry at him. 

No, better to not talk too much about that. 

It was Samuel that spoke next, as they drew close to Kaldwin’s Bridge.  “See all them new lights, on the water?  If we’re out past curfew, we’ll be spotted for sure.  Someone’s going to have to shut off their power before I can get too close.”

Daud pulled out his spyglass as Corvo hummed thoughtfully.  Indeed, once the sun went down and the lights came on, Samuel would be a sitting duck for the City Watch to take potshots at.  And if no one had happened to find the power supply already, they’d have to go looking for it, the bridge wasn’t small.  Void, he might come to regret trying to do two jobs in a day. 

But he could do nothing but continue until he found out, and they made good time to the Legal District and found Billie standing outside a sewer tunnel with a guard snoring at her feet. 

“I’ll wait for you here, sir,” Samuel said, taking up his chunk of wood and whittling knife, and Daud wondered if he had any idea of how long he might be sitting there. 

“Hatters ambushed the niece half an hour ago.  Her bodyguard didn’t make it.  But don’t worry, we were _gentle_.  They’ll snore for an hour.  Everyone’s still at Treaver’s Close.  You’ll know it by three whitewashed skulls.”  Her brief and very brusque report given, Billie transversed off to parts unknown.  Daud frowned at the empty air she’d vacated, feeling like that was the only thing he ever did with her anymore. 

“I’m getting the feeling she doesn’t like me,” Corvo said ruefully, pulling on his mask.  Daud only grunted in response.  It certainly looked to be that way, but he hadn’t the faintest idea of what he could’ve done to draw her ire. 

The design of the street was either wonderful or terrible, depending on who was being asked.  A watchman or Overseer would have complimented its openness and lack of cover.  Daud just ground his teeth as he and Corvo crouched on a low building, entirely too exposed.  There was no higher place to move to—the rails above them sparked occasionally, promising pain at best and death at worst to anyone foolish enough to step on them, even if a train didn’t come careening along every few minutes.  

He did, at least, have a way to make things easier.  He made the particular hand sign, pondering who would be best to summon.  Thomas, perhaps.  He was already in the area.  He started to bring his hand down to point—

And Corvo abruptly stood up, took a running leap off the roof of the little building, and just as Daud started to worry he was going to crash into one oblivious watchman feet-first, he transversed over to the guard post.  He came up a little short— _that_ sent Daud’s heart into his throat—and clambered up onto the top of the thing, rather less than gracefully.  Then he just looked back, head tilted as though to say _aren’t you going to come along?_   Daud could only stare at him in amazement.  Even he hadn’t been quite willing to try that. 

Granted, he did do it a few moments later (without having to scramble, he was pleased to note), and they made it over the wall of light and on to Treaver’s Close with ease. 

There, Thalia sat stiffly on a crate, looking distinctly uncomfortable as Fisher loomed over her, arms crossed.  Thomas stood off to the side, and Billie was nowhere in sight. 

“There you are,” Thalia drawled.  “The master assassin.”  She sat up a little straighter, and Daud was reminded that she was only seventeen.  “So, you want to know about Delilah.  Well, my uncle is bewitched by her, so he won’t tell you anything.  I require only two things: get rid of my uncle and bring me his last will and testament.  In exchange, I’ll tell you what you want to know about Delilah Copperspoon, and I’ll pay you cold hard coin for your trouble.  Come back to me when it’s done.  Let’s meet at the docks when you return.”  She seemed to think that was all there was to it and stood to walk away. 

“Oh no,” Fisher said, laying a hand on her shoulder.  “You’re short a bodyguard.  I’m coming with you.” 

“I don’t need a minder.”  Thalia scowled. 

“And if more Hatters find you, what will you do?  Try to stall them and hope one of us comes along?”  If it had been other circumstances, someone (Billie, usually, or Montgomery) would have started ribbing him mercilessly for using his so-called _dad voice_.  But Thalia just flushed, and he gestured at Fisher.  “Take her.” 

Once they were gone, Thomas spoke up.  “Sir, the barricade to the Legal District is presumably locked, but we were able to recover the key after subduing the Hatters.”

“And you’re sure this is it?”

“Yes, sir.  They left a note.” 

Daud snorted.  Of course they did.  “Let’s go, then.” 

* * *

Though it took almost an hour, they made it to the other side of the barricade without alerting any members of the irritatingly heavy guard presence, where Billie decided to make herself known just long enough to say, “There’s an equipment stash up ahead, across from the barrister’s house.” 

Then it was onto the roofs again, and as Daud climbed through a window he happened to glance behind himself and discover that Corvo was nowhere to be found.  He looked around and hissed, _“Corvo.”_  

Nothing. 

“Meet up with Billie,” he told Thomas, and started to backtrack.  _Picked a fine time to go haring off by himself_ , he thought, even as worry began to curdle in his gut, because Corvo was _gone_.  He wasn’t down below in the street, or on the roof, or any of the surrounding balconies.  By all appearances, he’d well and truly vanished. 

_“Corvo!”_   He risked being a little louder that time.  Still nothing.  Daud allowed himself precisely one second to wish that he had the arcane bond instead of his own blasted Mark; that would make the whole ordeal of finding him much easier. 

He looked around once more, but there was no one about save for a lower guard walking along and mumbling to himself, shoulders slumped as though he was upset about something.  Daud didn’t care about whatever drama was troubling him.  He had a Royal Protector to locate.  The wall of light crackled menacingly below as he contemplated where to look next, and it occurred to him that there was a distinct possibility that Corvo had just taken a different route to the equipment stash and they might both be looking for each other. 

Void. 

He had almost made up his mind to turn back and look somewhere else when the balcony doors of a very abandoned-looking house creaked open, and who should appear but Corvo himself, who pulled off his mask and beckoned Daud closer, looking too cheerful by half.  When he transversed closer, he was pulled into the house as Corvo whispered, “I think I just found a way to get rid of Timsh without killing him.”

That got Daud’s complete and undivided attention and made up for making him worry.  “How?”

“There’s a man down there, Roland”—he jerked a thumb to indicate the floor below them—"who wants to put him in prison as revenge for taking his and his wife’s house.  He claims he has a good plan and wants to talk to you.”

Roland startled when they dropped in on him and tried to disguise it by smoothing his lapels, though his eyes were still rather wide behind his mask.  “Ah.  You must be Daud.  I assume you’re here for Timsh’s head?  You wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you?” 

Daud crossed his arms.  “I am.  What do you want?” 

“I want to do to Timsh what he did to me, make him a victim of one of his own eviction documents.” 

“And how will I go about doing this?”

Roland straightened, radiating pride.  “Timsh carries a document affording him complete legal immunity at all times.  And I had an eviction order prepared, complete with the forged signature of the Lord Regent.  Simply exchange the two.  I also made arrangements with a strange woman in apartment ten who agreed to provide me the means of faking an outbreak of plague—a sack to be placed in the ventilation system of his house.  I’ve no idea what’s in it, but it’s certainly malodorous, though she assured me it isn’t infectious.  I’ve no wish to inflict needless suffering upon the house staff.  There’s a general coming to inspect later today, and as soon as he gets a whiff of the house, Timsh will be ruined.”  His tone turned hopeful.  “Will you consider—” 

“I’ll do it.”  It might not be easy, but he would. 

“Oh, excellent.  And I’ve not forgotten you’re a businessman.  Unless someone’s made off with it, there should be money in apartment eight, where I used to live, along with an item I’m sure you or one of your people could make some use of.  Do please let me know when it’s done.”  He glanced around.  “And in the meantime, I suppose I’ll be here.” 

They left, and Corvo went sheepish out on the balcony.  “I didn’t mean to vanish.  I only went in to get a bone charm and found him.” 

Daud shrugged.  Even if he had been angry, he didn’t think he had a rhetorical leg to stand on for an argument, since Corvo had just solved one of his problems.  “Just tell someone next time.  What’s the charm do?”

“Something for swimming, I think.”  He pulled it from his pocket.  “Swimming and healing?  Could be useful.” 

An odd combination, but Daud hummed in agreement nonetheless.  There was plenty of water in the Flooded District to dunk someone in. 

* * *

“Is Dodge really your name?” 

Dodge looked up, poised to cut her yarn and add yet another color to her scarf.  “It’s my last name.” 

“Why don’t you use your first name?”  If Emily did that, she’d just be _Kaldwin_ , like Corvo was _Attano_ to some people when he wasn’t around.  Those people were never very nice, she didn’t know why anyone would want to be like them. 

Dodge wrinkled her nose.  “I don’t like it.” 

“What is it?”

“Emily,” Dr. Montgomery said from the sofa.  “If she doesn’t wish to, she doesn’t have to tell you.  You wouldn’t appreciate someone prying into your business.” 

“It’s okay.  You just can’t tell anyone, alright?” 

Emily leaned closer, nodding.  She was _good_ at keeping secrets. 

“It’s Eugenia,” she whispered, pulling a dreadful face.  “That sounds like an old woman with a big stuffed bird on her hat.”  She held her hands away from her head to illustrate the size. 

“I wouldn’t want to be named that either,” Emily whispered back.  _Eugenia_.  Just Kaldwin sounded much better. 

“ _See?_   And Fisher does it too, she’s the one that gave me the idea.”  She snipped her yarn, looking vindicated. 

“My second name’s Drexel,” Emily said as consolation.  She’d never particularly liked that one. 

“At least it’s your second.  I don’t even _have_ a middle name.”  She turned to Thomas.  “What’s your middle name?” 

He blinked at them.  “Henry.” 

“Ugh, that’s not even bad.”  Dodge went back to knitting, looking put out. 

Emily contemplated Thomas a moment more before picking up her crayon again.  Thomas Henry.  Thomas Henry _Something_. 

* * *

Daud opened the door to apartment ten and immediately gagged.  “Outsider’s _ass_ ,” he choked, eyes watering.  The smell coming out of the place was _horrific,_ because of course it was full of bodies, flies buzzing all around them.  And of _course_ he could detect, just at the edges of his hearing, a quiet, constant noise, a bit like hissing but not. 

The woman, whoever she was, had a rune. 

So, he gritted his teeth, held his sleeve over his nose to try to block out the worst of the stench, and went looking for it, questioning why he was even bothering.  There were other runes in the world, probably more than Corvo could ever possibly need. 

(Though he would never admit it, he knew exactly why.)

He shoved a bookcase out of the way and was confronted with purple.  That sorely tempted him to turn around, grab the sack, and leave, but he’d come that far and refused to have made a trip through the reeking apartment for nothing.  Besides, there was always the chance the Outsider wouldn’t bother making an appearance.  Unfortunately, it was a _slim_ chance, but he could hope. 

“I’ve always wondered—what does he smell like?” Billie said, seeming more relaxed for Corvo’s absence.  “Rotting flesh?  Wildflowers?  Does he ask you questions?  I wonder when he’ll speak to me.” 

Daud had no earthly idea how to respond to that line of questioning and picked up the rune without answering.  To his irritation, he was immediately yanked into the Void. 

“Here’s one more lesson, for old times’ sake,” the Outsider said, standing before him and twisting the ring on his index finger.  “The barrister was a champion at finding his enemies’ weak points, but he didn’t see Delilah as a threat until it was too late.  No one’s watching her now except you.  And me, of course.  I see everything.  And right now, I see a man walking a tightrope over a sea of blood and filth.” 

Daud gritted his teeth as the Outsider dissolved and whooshed over to an outcropping to sit down.  He wanted to tell him _you’re being grandiose_ , but he didn’t want to find his tongue mysteriously stuck to the roof of his mouth again.  At least that had only lasted until he was booted back into the proper world.  Small mercies and all that. 

“But what of Corvo, and his daughter?  They have more cause than most to hate you for what you’ve done, and yet you’ve taken them in with hardly a thought of the consequences.  Surprisingly kind deeds, for a man with so much blood on his hands.  Did the Empress change you?  Or do you think this will help you dodge what’s coming?  You’d better hurry.  You’re running out of rope.”

He blinked and found himself back in apartment ten, the rune clutched in one hand. 

“You were in a daze.  I hope it was enlightening.”  The sound of Billie’s transversal echoed faintly. 

As he grabbed the sack and left, he wondered just how often the Outsider was going to tell him he was nearing the end of the road.  It stuck the first time, he didn’t need reminders. 

He went into Timsh’s basement and dropped the sack (he could sympathize with Roland, he didn’t want to know what was in it either) and Corvo wrinkled his nose at the smell that immediately started filling the air. 

“Ugh,” he said, eloquently. 

“Thomas, make sure no one disturbs that.”  Daud though he might’ve muttered _lovely_ , but he couldn’t be sure.  “I’ll go upstairs and deal with Timsh’s paperwork.  Corvo, could you get the will?” 

He nodded, sliding off the wrapped pallet he’d been sitting on.  “And I know the best way to get you up there.” 

The words themselves didn’t sound dangerous, but there was some mischief pulling at his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes.  Daud wasn’t entirely sure he trusted that look, or the spring in Corvo’s step as he led him over to the other room of the basement.  He leaned on the stove, arms crossed, looking like the cat that ate the canary. 

The dumbwaiter. 

Corvo thought he should get in the dumbwaiter.  Wanted, even, might be the better word.  The man was practically vibrating. 

Daud sighed.  He was as bad as the novices. 

Really, though, it probably _was_ the best way up.  It would be quicker than going up the stairs, and far less risky.  The thing probably ran up and down at all hours of the day and night, no one would even notice it. 

“Come on,” Corvo said, one corner of his mouth creeping higher and higher.  “A couple of extra knees might even do you good.” 

Outsider’s eyes, was that his natural state? 

But he climbed in anyway, even though involved him getting half-stuck in an odd position with one leg in and one leg out and his arm tucked up strangely while Corvo made a brave and ineffective attempt to stifle his laughter, because it both looked and felt absolutely ridiculous, even he could admit that. 

A few more minutes of indignity saw him carefully folded and tucked into the dumbwaiter like a particularly large and uncooperative piece of laundry. 

“Good luck,” Corvo said, composure regained, and sent him trundling up into the darkness. 

While it was far from the worst thing he’d ever experienced, it wasn’t exactly luxurious, either.  His feet were already trying to go to sleep, and the sides of the box dug into his shoulders, even though he’d already pulled them inward to make himself fit.  It was clear that whoever designed the dumbwaiter hadn’t created it with the intent of packing a full-grown man—and a muscular one, at that—inside.  He was all too happy to go spilling out of it. 

He was less happy when the sound of him hitting the floor alerted none other than Timsh himself. 

He hurriedly stopped time and seized the opportunity to swap the necessary papers, transversing onto a light fixture just as the world began to turn again. 

“What?” Timsh said, looking at the space Daud had just vacated.  Then he shook himself.  “My eyes must be playing tricks on me.” 

“Sir, would you like me to clean the art studio?” a maid asked. 

“No, no, leave it be.  She’d hate for you to disturb anything.”  Timsh waved a hand and continued down the hall, out of view. 

Daud narrowed his eyes.  Art studio? 

* * *

Corvo carefully deposited the unconscious lawyer in his chair and tried to open the chest he suspected held the will. 

It was locked. 

However, two good, solid kicks had the lid in pieces, making it very easy to retrieve said will, read it, and frown at it.  Timsh’s mother had been ailing for years, so the estate planning itself didn’t bother him.  No, it was the fact that neither the barrister nor Thalia, but Delilah Copperspoon had been named the sole beneficiary that filled him with unease. 

He tucked it into his pocket and resolved to ask Daud if he had any insight. 

* * *

Daud, meanwhile, softly shut the art studio’s door behind himself and turned around to find an enormous, pure white statue of a woman towering over him. 

She didn’t look pleasant.  By his own estimation, he wasn’t much better, but something about the set of her jaw and the slight curl of her lips made her look cruel.  The roses winding around her collar and the thorns—he thought they were thorns—piercing her sleeves didn’t help. 

He swiped a cameo that really should have been put somewhere safe, pocketed another rune, and studied the face of the callous-looking statue, murmuring to himself, “Who are you?”

Daud had seen many strange things over the course of his life.  He’d witnessed more than a few of them in houses just like Timsh’s.  Nevertheless, he wasn’t expecting the statue to start _moving_. 

“I understand your curiosity.  I’m strange,” she said, as Daud’s brain went round and round in circles trying to wrap itself around the idea of a moving, talking statue.  “I was a baker’s apprentice in Dunwall Tower, long years ago.  Then—afterward—I made my name as a painter.  Now I’m obviously something _much_ greater.  I hope that satisfies you, because you won’t get more.  I ought to just kill you, but I’ll give you a warning for the sake of my sisters: _stay away from me_ ,” she snapped, and immediately went back to cool and aloof.  “But as for Arnold Timsh?  Do what you want.  I won’t hold a grudge.  I’m done with him.” 

And with that, the statue froze, as though it hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. 

“Is that who you were looking for?  She’s a bit of a bitch, and the artwork’s hopeless.  I know you have your reasons.”  Billie shrugged, apparently unimpressed. 

* * *

It was entertaining to watch Timsh ruin himself and faint over it—Corvo certainly got a kind of wicked satisfaction out of the whole affair—but Daud seemed strangely subdued and withdrawn.  If Corvo didn’t know better, he’d say he was shaken, but by what, he couldn’t fathom. 

Roland was ecstatic, of course, and left his makeshift prison with an almost absurd spring in his step.  Down at the waterfront, Thalia was still underwhelmed by it all.

“Your uncle’s enemies caught up to him.  He’s in custody.  Here’s the will, as agreed.”

“That’ll do nicely, perhaps better.”  She handed over a small bag that clinked, which Daud weighed in his hand before tucking away, apparently finding it to his satisfaction.  “But you were promised information.  Well, my uncle came under Delilah’s spell—he was obsessed with her.  She was a _painter_ , an artist.  Beneath my family’s class, for certain.”

Corvo thought that would go a long way toward explaining the wildly colorful painting he’d seen.  He knew the things people like Timsh tended to favor, and that didn’t fit the mold. 

“Uncle was infatuated, but he looked older, made us keep candles lit all night.  He was afraid of the dark.”  Thalia sounded scathing.  “One night we all went to Waverly Boyle’s for a séance.  It was an amusement, we didn’t know what we were doing.  And I thought only the dead appeared at séances, but suddenly Delilah was in the room with us.  My uncle nearly _died_ of terror.  She was there and not there, as if she was very far away, standing at an easel and painting a name.  Your name, Daud.  That’s all I know.  I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

She said all that as though she were commenting on the _weather_ and sauntered off like she hadn’t just disturbed Corvo deeply.  Perhaps the worst part, though, was Daud’s near-complete lack of reaction.  He didn’t do anything more than frown a bit and say _let’s go_ as he walked over to Samuel. 

“Off to Kaldwin’s Bridge, sir?” he asked, and took it in stride when he only received a grunt in answer. 

Corvo kept sneaking glances at Daud, hoping to catch some indication of _any_ emotion, since they were apparently dealing with—with a witch, he thought incredulously.  Void, he used magic every day, but an actual _witch_ (and an unpleasant, if not outright malevolent one) was something else entirely. 

And Daud just smoked, letting the ashes fall into the river.  The sun was just starting to set, the light going a warm sort of buttery yellow, softening the edges of everything and making the day look much warmer than it actually was.  The shoreline almost looked picturesque, from a distance.  And between the light, and the way he was relaxed against the side of the boat, and the fact that their surroundings weren’t collapsing buildings for once, Daud looked almost—

_Handsome_ , his traitor brain supplied. 

Oh no. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you liked it, and many thanks to everyone who's commented and given kudos! It's great motivation :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter woot woot 
> 
> Also real quick I'd like to mention jumblebumps, who's been really awesome and let me ramble about this fic and ask all kinds of questions (and who has also written "A Sudden, Simple Twist of Fate," which is lovely). Thank you! :D

Corvo blinked, and hurriedly shifted his gaze to the opposite bank of the river, hoping Daud was too distracted to bother noticing he’d been… inspected, for lack of a better word.  He was in the habit of looking all around and at everything during their boat trips, Corvo reminded himself.  It was hardly unusual for him to look in Daud’s general direction, and then somewhere else. 

After a point, though, watching the one shore go by was oddly uncomfortable.  He wanted to know what was happening everywhere else.  He knew there was nothing interesting—if there was, Daud or Samuel would point it out—but he just wanted to see.  He’d always been like that and had had to teach himself not to gawk at everything after Jess picked him out as Royal Protector. 

“Did you find anything at Roland’s?” he asked, thinking that was a perfectly reasonable excuse to turn back around.  It was relevant. 

It was also a _mistake_. 

“Mhm.  Three hundred coin and a bone charm.”  Daud dropped his cigarette butt into the water and started digging in one pocket.  “If you use it, white rats—and _only_ white rats, mind—will leave you alone.  It’s halfway useless if you ask me.”  He held it out with a funny sort of wry smile that, to Corvo’s recently compromised brain, was entirely more attractive than it should have been.  “Want it?”

_Pull yourself together, damn it_ , he thought, and shrugged as he said, “Why not.” 

Daud handed it over and reached into a different pocket, drawing out a pair of runes.  “Found these as well.” 

“Thank you.” 

The clock tower in the Estate District began to toll, the sound echoing out over the river.  As the sixth chime died away, the bridge started up a great grinding shriek as the lift rose, cutting the two halves of Dunwall away from each other.  Moments later, the floodlights came on, harsh and glaring and designed to make all water traffic painfully visible. 

“That’s curfew,” Daud said as soon as he could be heard, looking grim but resigned. 

“Sokolov’s got the whole of Dunwall under his thumb with all that natural philosophy business, new technology, potions and the like.”  Samuel seemed to be speaking just to fill the uneasy quiet.  “Seems dangerous to me, but what do I know?  I’ll meet you by the arches under his place when you’re ready, assuming of course you’ve taken care of the floodlights.”

As they stepped onto the bridge, a Whaler appeared in front of them—Quinn, Corvo guessed, judging by the way she immediately started fidgeting. 

“Hey boss,” she said.  “Leo and Arden are just past here.”  She turned and started to jog away, apparently unconcerned that they might be seen, and Corvo learned why after she led them past a dumpster that snored faintly.  “There’s a whole shitload of guards around, but they kicked enough people out it’s easy to get around them.”  She led them through a door, up some stairs, and over to a small, open rail car, where she heaved a full tank of whale oil off the ground and struggled to fit it into its slot.  “And this thing’s fucking _loud_ , but they think it’s official, so they don’t do anything about it.”

Corvo and Daud both eyed it skeptically as she climbed in.  “’S the best way to get there,” she said, peering over the edge.  “Trust me, boss.” 

Daud shook his head, but they joined her anyway, and just as she’d said, no one looked twice as they clattered along.  Leonid and Arden were in a vacant apartment—the Watch really _had_ done a number on the bridge’s population—and they looked up from a pile of pilfered goods when Corvo and Daud stepped in. 

“Hello.”  Leonid stood and launched into a report unprompted.  “Sokolov’s at the north end, so we’ll have to get across the lift.  I was able to get over there earlier, and there’s an arc pylon at each end of the bridge, and another at the checkpoint on this side.  I’m assuming they’re turned on by now.” 

Daud held up a hand.  “What about the floodlights?”

“We can turn them off.”  Corvo let out a breath, relaxing a fraction.  He hadn’t relished the thought of possibly having to carry Sokolov into the Estate District before loading him into _Amaranth_.  “The control station is at the north end, I just didn’t dare tamper with them because the guards would’ve gotten suspicious.” 

Daud nodded.  “Good work.  Let’s go.” 

* * *

Corvo felt he knew more about Kaldwin’s Bridge than he would ever use.  He knew that, before the current structure was commissioned by Jess’s father, a low arch bridge spanned the Wrenhaven in its place.  Once the whale oil boom hit, though, the middle of it was knocked down to make way for a drawbridge that would allow the whaling ships to pass under it.  He’d heard that ruffled some feathers, but by the time he arrived in Dunwall the whole affair was nearly finished, and he had other things to think about, anyway, like all the etiquette lessons Duke Abele had patiently taught him. 

He turned all that over in the back of his mind as he followed Daud—who was following Leonid, with Quinn and Arden bringing up the rear and occasionally hitting each other, by the sound of it.  No one else seemed to think that was odd, though, so he shrugged and carried on.

Quinn had been right, all the shops and apartments lining the street made for an easy way to avoid the guardsmen wandering about. 

The Heart started beating against him when they passed by an apartment with one very twitchy occupant who came out onto his balcony to look up and down the street like he expected an enemy to appear from thin air. 

Remembering Daud’s request, Corvo tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “I think there’s a rune back there.”

“Red-letter day,” he said.  “We’ll wait for you.”  

When he returned to the apartment, the man had gone to his other balcony and taken up hollering at the gulls, all, “I am the one.  I am the one who sees it all.  I see everything, and you see nothing.  _Nothing!”_

And, Corvo thought as he wound an arm around the man’s neck, perhaps he’d been onto something when he was looking around for attackers. 

It figured he’d set up a shrine—driftwood altar, purple cloth, whale oil lamps, the whole thing—with a rune in the place of honor in the middle.  Corvo let him fall to the floor and stepped over him on the way to pick it up.  As soon as his fingertips made contact, the world distorted at the edges and he found himself standing in the Void, the Outsider forming out of a dense shadow in front of him. 

“Rivers change course over many lifetimes, and eventually all bridges crumble,” he said, ambling in a slow circle around Corvo.  “A thousand years ago, there was another city in this place.  The people carved the bones of whales and inscribed them with my Mark.  Children still find them, washed up in the river mud.  Anton Sokolov has made a great study of my runes, but he doesn’t wear my Mark, so he can’t unlock their secrets.  He believes that if he can only discover the right ritual, he can compel me to appear before him.  But if he really wants to meet me, he could start by being a bit more _interesting_.”  The Outsider, apparently bored of the back of Corvo’s head, moved to stand in front of him again, and smiled, with teeth.  “But you are fascinating indeed, aren’t you, dear Corvo?”

The instant he felt a cold spike of dread at the implications of _that_ , he found himself back in the apartment, the rune nothing more than a little pile of ash on the shrine.  He pulled his fingers away like it burned him, stepped back, and fled. 

He found everyone else crouched on the next rooftop over and in deep discussion.  Daud in particular looked very severe as he shook his head. 

“I can do it,” Leonid said.  “There’s only two walking around, and the one in the post—booth— _thing_ is cleaning his pistol, and he’s not going to move until he’s done.  I won’t be seen.” 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.  The arc pylon doesn’t have to see you.”  Daud slicked a hand back over his hair as his frown deepened.  “And they were smart, the tank’s too close to it.  You’ll be _killed_.” 

“They don’t fire immediately, and you can bend time from here.  I’ll be fine.”  Daud pinched the bridge of his nose, and her voice took on a beseeching note.  “ _Some_ one has to do it.  I checked earlier, this will be the easiest way.  We can go from down there into the control room, and then we can go up and over the top of the bridge.  No one will ever even know we were here.” 

Daud didn’t speak for long enough that Corvo was on the verge of volunteering himself when he ground out, “Be _careful_.  And if I stop time, you leave, immediately.” 

“Yes, sir.”  She bobbed her head in a nod and blinked off. 

It was nerve-wracking to watch her from up on the roof, too far away to easily help.  She moved from a streetlight to the rightmost guard booth, where she perched just out of view as a watchman ambled along, whistling, until he disappeared behind it.  Leonid hopped down and blinked back up a moment later.  The guard did not reappear.  The other one didn’t move, didn’t do anything, just kept leaning on the railing and looking out at the river as he—picked his nose, Corvo realized. 

Typical. 

“Better make a pass over here,” he announced as though to reaffirm to the world that he _was_ actually doing his job, and straightened up, starting to wander toward one of the bridge’s control rooms.  He got a dart in the back for his trouble and slumped to the ground.  Leonid stole over to a metal barrier (why the City Watch insisted on putting those up wherever they went, Corvo would never know) and leaned out from behind it.

The pylon squawked a warning and Quinn gasped, gripping Arden’s bicep tight as Leonid ducked back behind the barrier to safety.  Corvo heard Daud exhale slowly through his teeth.  A moment later, a hand—which was apparently too small a target or too far away for the pylon to concern itself with—made an odd movement, down and then back up with the fingers curled.  Daud frowned, and the hand moved with more impatience until he grunted in understanding and stopped time, so Leonid could duck out from behind the barrier, move the tank of whale oil, and knock out the Watch officer cleaning his pistol.  Once time resumed, everyone else had joined her on the ground.

Off to the side, right up against the edge of the walkway, stood a notice board.  It was thoroughly covered with all manner of papers overlapping one another, most of which were starting to fade and curl from time and weather.  Corvo didn’t pay it much mind, as there were plenty of others exactly like it all over the city, but Arden split off to take a look. 

“Hey, Lord Attano,” he said.  “Come take a look at this.” 

Alongside _BRANDED: Thaddeus Campbell_ and _MISSING: Morgan and Custis Pendleton_ , partially on top of papers advertising hound fights, Piero’s Spiritual Remedy, and Sokolov’s elixir, was a brand-new poster, freshly pasted down.  The glue hadn’t even fully dried. 

_WANTED_ , it read, _for the murders of various individuals as well as the crimes of heresy:_

_THE MASKED TERROR_

_Enemy of the City of Dunwall_

_The offenses of this man are high crimes under the Strictures of the High Overseer, the municipal laws of the City Watch of Dunwall, and the edicts of our brave Lord Regent in these times of peril._

A passable rendering of Corvo’s mask served as his picture.  At least he was only shown wearing nondescript dark clothes instead of his Whaler coat. 

“Possible associate of the assassin Daud,” the man himself rasped from somewhere behind him.  “Two-thousand-coin reward for capture or death.”  He sounded contemplative, but not particularly upset that there were likely countless duplicates of the poster stuck up all over the city.  Although, Corvo thought, he’d been plastered all over the city in paper form for years, and it hadn’t seemed to slow him down any. 

“I’ll have to be more careful,” he said.  _Possible associate of the assassin Daud_.  He had no doubts of the Whalers’ competence, but if anyone decided to kill two birds with one stone—well, the would-be bounty hunter would certainly have the worse day, but they could still cause problems no one wanted to deal with. 

“Nothing we can do about it now.  Let’s keep moving,” Daud said. 

Leonid led them up the scaffolding and dangling chains all the way to the top of the bridge, where the wind whipped at them and the ground was _very_ far away indeed.  Daud was the first to set foot on the main girder and crept across it at a pace Corvo would’ve called agonizingly slow had they been anywhere else.  Leonid, then Arden, then Quinn made a duckling line behind him, and Corvo stepped on last, trying to quash his brain’s adamant insistence that a beam a foot wide was no place to walk. 

Despite the wind, he could hear Quinn’s breathing through her mask, quick and shallow.  And with the way she was inching along, placing her feet with great care, he got the sense that she wanted rather desperately to be anywhere else.  He couldn’t blame her.  They were disconcertingly high up, even by his standards. 

Arden had no such issues, though, and barely hunched against the wind as he walked.  They were all about halfway across when he leaned out over the air and said, _“Holy shit.”_

Quinn blurted a strangled, “Arden, _no!_ ” and wound both hands tightly into his jacket to pull him back to relative safety.  He squawked, pinwheeled his arms, but didn’t lose his balance. 

“Is there a problem?”  Daud turned around and squinted at both of them, frown firmly in place. 

“I didn’t know you were afraid of heights.”  Arden sounded almost accusing, as though he couldn’t believe Quinn dared keep such a thing from him. 

“I didn’t _either_ ,” she wailed, tightening her grip on his coattails.  “I’ve never _been_ this high up before.” 

“Get her to the other side,” Daud barked, and Arden wrapped his arm around her and blinked them to the north end.  By the time everyone else caught up to them, they’d disabled the floodlights and Quinn was sitting down cross-legged, head in her hands and mask her lap as Arden steadily rubbed a hand up and down the length of her spine. 

“Sorry, sir,” she croaked.  “Didn’t know that would bother me.”  Arden scooted a couple of inches closer. 

“You’re alright?”  Daud’s voice was gentler than Corvo was expecting. 

She nodded.  “I’ll be fine.  Permission to never do that again?” 

“Granted.” 

* * *

As they all stood looking at it from a nearby rooftop, Daud decided Sokolov’s house was strange—rather more iron and glass than was usual.  Granted, _Sokolov_ was strange, if memory served, and full of himself to boot. 

“House is probably fuckin’ weird,” Arden said. 

“Weird how?”  Leonid turned to face him. 

“Moving floors and shit, I don’t know.”

_“Moving floors?”_ Quinn asked.  “That’s the first thing you think of?” 

“Yeah.”  Leonid and Quinn stared at him, or at least Corvo thought they did.  “You know.  Dumbwaiter.  Make the house come to you.” 

Daud heard Corvo muffle a snort and fought to keep from sighing.  To get everyone back on track, he asked, “Any idea where he might be?”

Corvo exhaled gustily and shook his head.  “No.”  Daud really did sigh that time, but he continued with, “Though there’s a vent over the front door, we should go in that way.” 

The vent was convenient, and the pipes snaking all around the walls even more so.  A whispered command of _knock them out_ sent everyone creeping through the shadows by the ceiling to dispatch the maids, and the Watch, and the lone Overseer walking about. 

Daud would never know exactly what happened in the few short moments before everything went to shit, but between one breath and the next, pandemonium broke out.

It all started with the Overseer.  The bastard must’ve seen something that offended him and went to cranking on his music box like his life depended on it.  Daud heard Arden roar, “Pissing _fuck!_ ” and that summed his feelings up nicely.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t see anything from where he was in that strange elevated section in the middle of everything, where the poor maid had been dusting the dining table. 

He hurriedly laid her flat on the rug and heard heavy footsteps come pounding down the hall.  Slipping under the table, he pulled out a can of chokedust and hurled it at the guards’ feet as they passed.  It was quick work to dispatch them while they coughed.  He didn’t bother with making them comfortable and ran out to join the fray. 

A couple of others lay unconscious here and there, but no one had been able to get rid of the Overseer, who stood on a landing by the alarm, cranking and cranking.  Leonid was the worst off of all of them—she lay only a few feet away, curled up, shrinking in on herself with her hands over her ears. 

Daud wanted to kill that Overseer. 

_Oh_ , how he wanted. 

But one guard split off from the others and started coming his direction, so that would have to wait.  The man had some skill with a sword, Daud wasn’t able to get rid of him as fast as he would’ve liked— _damn_ , he actually wasn’t completely terrible—and he heard a loud, deep sound of metal hitting metal, and the music box cut off with one last discordant screech. 

The relative quiet only allowed him to better hear the crack of a pistol, and Corvo’s yell of pain. 

(Though he would never admit it, there was a full second where he was completely useless, gripped by a sudden, paralyzing terror, before he thought _damn it all to the Void_ and used all the sleep darts he had.)

He crunched over the broken glass on the floor, every bit of it from the fancy, self-aggrandizing display cases.  They’d probably rung up quite the bill in damages, but Daud didn’t care about that.  Corvo was leaning on the wall, head tilted back, mask dangling loosely from his fingers. 

There was a spreading stain of red running down his thigh, and just as Daud started having visions of perforated arteries and shock and tourniquets and amputations, Corvo ground out through gritted teeth, “It’s just a graze.” 

It looked to be bleeding a bit much for _just a graze_.  “You’re sure?” 

Corvo nodded and made a strange noise somewhere between a groan and a growl as he levered himself upright, putting his mask back on.  He started to limp away and said, “I heard someone say Sokolov’s in the greenhouse.” 

Corvo left a trail through the house as they walked, blood left in drops like morbid breadcrumbs.  Daud stayed as close to him as he thought he could he could get away with, ready to catch him if he stumbled just a bit too badly.  He never did, but he kept reaching out to steady himself against walls and doorframes. 

“Corvo—”

“I’m fine,” he said unconvincingly, and hissed out a breath, left hand hovering over the injury like he wasn’t sure it would actually help anything. 

_Liar_ , Daud thought.

They quietly let themselves into the greenhouse, and Corvo did an interesting maneuver to hide behind one of the tables without further hurting himself.  Daud joined him, and they heard Sokolov begin recording an audiograph. 

“I now turn my hopes and energies to formula twenty-five, which, in conjunction with a high heat therapy that came to me most vividly in a dream last night, has great potential.  As for test subject 312, after the characteristic sloughing of the skin, she should be dead by mid-morning tomorrow.”

Corvo shifted in place, flicking his wrist to load a sleep dart. 

“Please sir, please let me go.”  Daud stilled.  If the woman was still lucid enough to talk—

“Ah, awake I see.  How are you feeling?”  Sokolov sounded downright jovial.

“Much, much worse.  Do I have the plague?  Please, sir, I don’t want to die!” 

“Hush now, no one’s going to die.  You are much improved, number 312.”  Daud ground his teeth—he wouldn’t even call her by _name_.  “The formula I administered to you is working exactly as it should.  I cannot let you go yet, because I have not finished my study, but tomorrow will make all the difference.” 

“Really?  You’ll release me tomorrow?  I’m not going to die?” 

“Yes.  Tomorrow I will have the guards remove you from this cell.  Late morning perhaps.” 

Corvo made a few odd, aborted movements, his hands starting to shake, and if Daud guessed he was snarling behind his mask.  He lay a hand on his shoulder to steady him.  It actually seemed to work. 

“But the pain.  Can’t you give me something for the _pain?_ ” 

“I do have many pain remedies, yes, but alas, I cannot give you any.  They could interfere with my research.  You should thank me.  Soon we will have a cure for this terrible disease, thanks to all my hard work and dedication.” 

Evidently Corvo had had _enough_ and heaved himself up to dart Sokolov before he had a chance to so much as squawk.

Then he fell quite literally on his face, and Daud didn’t feel a bit sorry. 

But the whole point of this errand had been to collect him, so he crossed the room to sling him over one shoulder as Corvo limped over to the woman’s cell and let her out.  She went to tearfully thanking him before sitting down in a corner, shivering.  He noticed Corvo was careful not to touch her. 

Poor woman. 

* * *

Daud let Sokolov flop into the bottom of _Amaranth_ , only careful enough to keep him from getting a concussion. 

“Corvo, sir, are you sure you’re all right?”  Samuel eyed his trousers with steadily-growing alarm as he kept dripping. 

“It’s just a graze,” he said, though he honestly wasn’t certain he would be able to stand back up once they got to Rudshore.  He’d been running on adrenaline—which was rapidly fading—and the peculiar way a body could keep on moving, provided it didn’t ever stop.  And with it being his thigh that was hurt, every step burned fiercely. 

They were about halfway there when he prodded it lightly.  His fingers came away wet and red, and he could see Daud frowning at him. 

It might’ve been a little worse than he’d let on. 

He knew he wasn’t going to _die_ , barring something catastrophic, but a trip to the infirmary was probably in order.  Just to be safe. 

They puttered to a stop down at the docks and Daud summoned a bulky fellow (Kieron?) to move Sokolov to a cell while he slept off his dart.  Samuel was a few paces away having a cigarette, which left Corvo all by his lonesome, still sitting down. 

He took a deep breath.  This was going to hurt. 

He started to stand—and made good progress, he really did—until burning stinging _pain_ forcefully reminded him that he had a narrow strip of inside currently on the outside that didn’t appreciate that arrangement one bit.  Then his muscles went all to jelly and he flung out his hands to break his fall—

And Daud caught him, snagging him under the armpits with a strangled _Corvo!_ before forcibly arranging him such that he had one arm across Daud’s shoulders, leaning on him for support.  Daud grumbled to himself under his breath a bit before telling him, “You’re going to see Montgomery.” 

Corvo couldn’t really do much besides nod, both because the breath had been knocked out of him and he was having another realization.  He’d known, in a sort of detached, offhand fashion, that Daud was in fact rather strong.  He was aware.  Had _been_ aware for quite some time. 

However, there was a difference between knowing something and experiencing it firsthand, and he had suddenly joined the second camp quite without preparation. 

Daud was _strong_. 

Oh, Void. 

He felt himself flushing as Daud efficiently manhandled him across the district and could only hope that people would think it was only because of the indignity of the situation and not because…well. 

Rather than relinquish his hold on Corvo’s waist, Daud literally kicked the infirmary door open and hollered, _“Joplin, get out!”_   There was a crash and a clatter and Piero legged it past them, looking for all the world like a frightened sandpiper.  “Montgomery,” he called, rather softer, and she appeared in the door, flanked by Little Thomas, the girl with the scarf from the other day, and Emily, who went pale and gasped at the sight of him.  He tried to smile encouragingly as if to say _I’m fine_ , but it turned to a grimace when Daud settled him on one of the beds. 

“Wait in there,” Montgomery said, gently pushing Emily back through the door.  “What happened?”

“He was shot.”

“It’s a _graze_.” 

“Mhm.  Well, your color’s good, so you must not be in terribly dire straits.”  Corvo couldn’t hold back a small strangled noise and _knew_ he got a little redder.  Montgomery gave him a narrow, appraising look he tried to return with nonchalance, and mercifully she let it be.  She reached for the scissors and gestured at his pants.  “Can you get those off yourself or do I need to cut them?”

“Just cut them.”  They were well and truly ruined, anyway. 

She moved to get started but stopped.  “Daud, I need you to leave.”

“Why?”

“You’re hovering, I can’t think when you hover.”  He started to protest.  “No, shoo.  Make yourself useful and go tell Emily he isn’t dying.”

It was all Corvo could do to keep from snorting at Daud’s expression of affronted outrage. 

* * *

Emily sat on Montgomery’s couch, wide eyed.  Daud couldn’t exactly blame her—if he’d been ten and his mother had shown up covered in her own blood, he would’ve worried too.  He shifted awkwardly. 

She looked at him. 

He looked at the rug. 

She bit her lip, took a deep breath, and asked, “Is Corvo going to be alright?”

Daud nodded.  “It’s just a graze.” 

“Good.”  She relaxed visibly.  There was another silence, long enough to be incredibly uncomfortable.  “Thank you for the crayons.  They’re very nice.”

“You’re welcome,” he managed.  It was another minute before he remembered to say, “I’m glad you like them.” 

“Thomas is helping me get better at drawing.”

She must have meant Little Thomas.  “That’s nice.”

She nodded. 

Daud wanted a cigarette.  Unfortunately, Montgomery had put a ban on smoking in her apartment.  Said it made her cough. 

Still. 

She looked at the door. 

He looked at the bookshelf. 

After what seemed an eternity, Montgomery came in.  “Alright, I’ve finished.”

Emily perked up.  “Can I go talk to him?”

“But of course.”  Montgomery held the door open and Emily dashed in with a happy cry of _Corvo!_

Daud took the opportunity to slip out unnoticed.  Emily wouldn’t want him hanging about while she spent time with Corvo, no matter how much he wanted to badger him about how badly he was hurt until he got a straight answer.  That could wait. 

Besides, he wanted that cigarette. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, and as always, thanks for reading, giving kudos, and commenting!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack! 
> 
> Sorry this one took so long, the semester started and it's been killing me slightly. I shouldn't have to put this on hiatus, but updates will probably come slower than usual, unfortunately.

Of course, the short respite from Dunwall’s usually foul winter weather couldn’t last, and shortly after everyone made it back to Rudshore, clouds came rolling in from the sea, covering everything in sleet during the night and switching to rain in the early hours of the morning.

“Not much of a looker, is he?”  Quinn stood at the edge of Sokolov’s makeshift holding cell—a repurposed storage vat that once held whale oil at the Greaves refinery.  She shook her head, perhaps despairing at some people’s taste, and let his cell’s slatted wooden lid drop with a thump. 

Across the room, Kieron frowned at her, puzzled.  “You don’t even go in for men.” 

“I may not, but I still have _eyes_.  Rulfio agrees with me.” 

He nodded from his chair and took a sip of coffee, making a face that showed exactly how unimpressed he was with Sokolov’s appearance. 

Kieron looked baffled.  “But you always say you like everyone.”

“I do like everyone.”  Rulfio bent his knee and grimaced.  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.  _He_ looks like a goat, and I heard he acts like one too.”

“Fair,” he said, sounding very thoughtful.  “Y’know people say he’s slept with half the women in the city, though.” 

“I don’t buy it.”  Arden lit a cigarette and stretched his legs out along the floor and reclined against a canvas-wrapped pile of something.  “He’s read _The Young Prince of Tyvia_ a bit much for that.” 

Rulfio whipped around to face him.  “He _what?_ ”

Quinn sat down and laid her head on Arden’s shoulder, accepting the mug he passed her.  “Got _Daughter of Tyvia_ too, but he broke the spine on _Young Prince_.  Had it right by his bed too.” 

“Sequel’s never as good,” Arden mused. 

“Huh.  Not sure what I expected though.”  Rulfio leaned back and ran a hand through his curls, pushing them off his forehead.  “Wish I could’ve gone on that one.” 

“No, you don’t, there was an Overseer with some stupid music box and Lord Attano almost got shot and Leonid was sick twice,” Quinn said.  “Shit sure as fuck wasn’t music though.”

“Is she alright?”

“Yeah, we’re pretty sure it was from the box.  _Stupid_ —” she cut off with a frustrated growl and Arden wrapped one arm around her, taking another deep drag on his cigarette.  “Pissed me off.” 

“What are we supposed to do with him when he wakes up?” Kieron asked, jerking a thumb in Sokolov’s direction. 

“Let him sit.  Daud said he’d be here early to ask him some _questions_.  Didn’t seem too happy about it either,” Rulfio said.  “Arden, you darted him last, didn’t you?  How long’s it been?”

“What time is it?”

Kieron consulted his pocket watch.  “Quarter ‘til eight.”

“Three hours?”  He brought a hand to his shiny, shiny hair, eyebrows bunching together, head tilted in contemplation.  “No.  Four.” 

“Shouldn’t be too much longer then.”  Rulfio bent his knee again.  “Think I could’ve gotten arthritis already?” 

There was a chorus of noncommittal grunts before everyone went quiet, listening to the rain drumming on the roof.  It was almost peaceful and pleasant, but for the building’s lack of heating and comfortable chairs, and the ceiling’s tendency to send drops of cold rainwater onto the back of one’s neck when one least expected it. 

“Quinn,” Arden said mildly.  “What the fuck is in your pocket?”

She patted it.  “Oh.  Paint.” 

“Where did you get _paint?_ ”

“Stole it from him.”  She tipped her head in Sokolov’s direction and wormed a hand into her jacket.  “I thought Little Thomas would want it.  It’s all in tubes, too, see?  Him and the Princess are going to love it.  It’s got to be the good stuff too, if he was using it.” 

A tinny groan echoed up out of the storage vat. 

“Speak of the Outsider,” Rulfio drawled, and burrowed a bit further into his sagging chair, apparently intent on remaining comfortable.  Arden and Quinn, though, reacted like they’d been touched by a live wire, straightening and sending each other meaningful looks.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re not actually going to go through with it, are you?” 

“He’s _in charge_.”  Quinn gestured broadly in Sokolov’s general direction, sounding rather like she’d had that particular argument before.  “If _anyone_ would know, it’d be him.” 

Poor Kieron looked confused again.  “What?”

“Those two want to interrogate Sokolov themselves and find out if Daud actually went to the Academy.”  Rulfio spoke from behind the hand he’d laid across his face, the very picture of a long-suffering, unwilling partner in crime.  “Didn’t you already ask Joplin?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Arden grumbled. 

“And there wasn’t anything at his house?”

“Not a damn thing.” 

Rulfio muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _how did I get involved in this_ and let his hand flop to the armrest.  “Look, if you’re going to do anything, just hurry.” 

Almost as though they had been waiting for permission (Rulfio knew they hadn’t, those two always just _did_ ) Arden and Quinn scrambled to their feet as one, pulling their masks on, hurrying over to the cell, and throwing the lid open with a bang. 

Sokolov regarded them blearily and rubbed his nose, not yet fully part of the waking world. 

They squatted at the edge above him, no doubt leering at him, not that anyone would be able to tell.  “Rise and shine.” 

* * *

Daud wished Corvo didn’t live on the top floor.  Either that, or he wished transversing up stairwells was any more efficient than walking, he couldn’t decide. 

Because Corvo understandably wanted to be around for Sokolov’s interrogation, and Montgomery had set him free shortly after she’d finished patching him up (she’d said so when she came by his office for her customary rainy-night couch invitation), so there Daud was, trekking along at seven in the morning with a kink in his neck.  

It wasn’t that much further though, and he took the last flight of stairs two at a time.  When he stood in front of the apartment, he raised his hand and knocked.  There was a faint scuffling sound from within, quiet footsteps—

—and who should answer but Emily, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and trailing off into the floor.  She took a step back in what Daud hoped was surprise and not fear, hugging Leonid’s koala a little tighter.  A moment or two passed in silent stalemate until he said, “May I speak to Corvo?”

“No.”  She shut the door with a click. 

That left him staring dumbly at the door, wondering what he was meant to do next.  His plan hadn’t included being turned away with such efficiency.  As he stood there, he heard a muffled voice (Corvo’s, must’ve been) say something, to which Emily responded with a venomous shout of _him_.  Corvo said something else, and the door swung open again.

“He’s shaving,” Emily said, sour-faced.  “You can wait in here until he’s done.” 

And call him funny, but something about her tone gave Daud the impression he was a distinctly unwelcome visitor.  Without another word, she turned and marched off to the kitchen, blanket sweeping along behind her like a cape.  He stood in the entryway, caught wrong-footed, and Emily made a vaguely disparaging noise like she couldn’t believe he was being such an awkward guest—the _nerve_.  “Corvo made too much breakfast, you can take whatever you like.” 

That sounded a bit like an order, and he hadn’t eaten anything yet, so he fetched himself a piece of toast and smeared some butter on it, interpreting Emily’s pointed look as direction to sit in the only other chair at the table.  As soon as he did, she went back to ignoring him, sipping milk and coloring in a drawing, one of many he’d seen all over the apartment. 

He took a bite of his toast, thinking it made a strange kind of sense that Emily would insist on adhering to some semblance of social protocol, even with him.  She’d undoubtedly had to sit through boring functions with people she didn’t particularly like before—Outsider’s eyes, _Burrows_ would’ve been a regular fixture in her life for years.  If she could tolerate being around that snake, she could deal with anyone, himself included. 

“Corvo told me he hurt himself while you were getting Dr. Sokolov.”  Emily cut a piece of sausage into quarters and speared one, very prim. 

Daud felt like he was being tested, though for what, he didn’t know.  “He did.”  It felt odd to lie, but Corvo had done it first and if he didn’t want Emily to know people had been shooting at him, Daud certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. 

“Hm.”  She picked up her crayon again but stopped.  “Does Thomas have any lessons today?” 

Thinking of how slick some of the walkways were, he shook his head.  “Not with the weather.” 

“I see.”  They lapsed back into silence, and Daud wondered how long it would be until Corvo was finished getting ready.  He couldn’t take _that_ much longer—but he did have bandages that might need to be changed, and Daud was no stranger to sitting there with gritted teeth until the pain subsided enough that he could stand to keep cleaning himself up. 

Out of curiosity, he shifted his attention to the drawings at his elbow.  There was a happy and slightly lopsided Corvo, one of the dogs Little Thomas liked so much, and a whale, but one near the bottom of the stack was much more geometric than the rest and caught his eye.  He slid it out from under the others to investigate. 

It was a portrait of Leonid in the archives—all the rectangles were the bookshelves in the background.  An ambitious choice, if Little Thomas was to be believed, though it looked very good.  Leonid was smiling gently, and he could even tell that someone had put a lamp somewhere to her left from the way the light shone off her hair. 

“Did you draw this?”

“Hm?”  Emily glanced his direction and he tilted the picture, so she could see it.  “Oh.  Thomas helped me.  She was sitting right there, too.  I had to draw Corvo from memory, so he doesn’t look as good.” 

“It’s…very nice,” he said, and he meant it.  It was a child’s drawing, yes, but an excellent one.  It would be a shame if she didn’t get lessons once she was back in Dunwall Tower. 

Emily gave him a long, hard look before declaring, “You can keep it.” 

Daud tried and mostly failed not to let his surprise show too much.  She didn’t show any sign of changing her mind though, so he carefully folded it in half and tucked it away in an inside pocket, murmuring, “Thank you.” 

They went quiet again, but the silence wasn’t as tense as it had been a few minutes earlier.  Perhaps he’d get another piece of toast.   

He’d just sat down again when Corvo came limping around the corner, looking disgruntled.  “Morning,” he rumbled, and Corvo drew up short, glancing between them in tired confusion as one hand wandered to his thigh, scratching idly around where Daud assumed stitches would be. 

“G’ morning.”  He stifled a yawn and ambled over to the percolator, pouring himself a cup of coffee more like a man who’d just awoken than one who’d already made breakfast.  Daud vacated the chair for him, and he eased into it with a grimace.  “What brings you here?” 

“I’d like to talk to Sokolov sooner rather than later; you wanted to come.”  _Interrogate_ probably wasn’t the best word to use around Emily. 

_“Mm,”_ he grunted in sudden remembrance, rubbing his forehead.  “I didn’t sleep well last night.” 

_No shit_ , Daud wanted to say, noticing the purplish smudges under his eyes, but that would be uncalled for, and—well, Emily might be delighted if she was anything like some of the other kids, but Corvo might never forgive him. 

“Let me finish this and we can go,” Corvo said, picking up the pace a bit and visibly perking up as he did so. 

“Where _is_ Dr. Sokolov?” Emily asked.

Corvo replied with a speed that was both admirable and somewhat concerning.  “He and Piero are sharing the workshop.” 

Daud confined his reaction to a momentary uptick of his eyebrows.  Again, if Corvo didn’t want Emily to know Sokolov was in an oil vat that tended to collect rainwater, he wasn’t going to be the one to break the news. 

“Oh,” Emily said.  “Could I see Thomas again today?  He doesn’t have any lessons.” 

“As long as he doesn’t mind, I don’t see why not.  Will you be alright here by yourself while I’m gone?  I shouldn’t be long.” 

She nodded, still coloring away.  She seemed more relaxed for Corvo’s presence and swung her feet as she picked at the last bits of her breakfast.  From where he stood leaning against the countertop, Daud was suddenly reminded of how, years ago, Leonid would want to have dinner with him and him alone, and the pitifully small number of times he’d actually managed it. 

(Though he would never admit it, having breakfast there in Corvo’s apartment was—it was _nice_.) 

Corvo glugged the rest of his coffee in three overlarge gulps and set his mug down with a thunk before standing.  He didn’t obviously show any pain, but Daud knew by the grim set of his jaw that he was hurting. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and kissed the top of Emily’s head as he left.  He and Daud slowly made their way down the stairwell, Corvo’s breath’s growing ever shorter as they walked, until he snapped, “Oh, fuck it,” and transversed down each flight of stairs instead. 

His transversal really was bizarrely flashy, Daud thought.  Why was it _blue?_  

Billie joined them along the way, silently melting out of a deep shadow and falling into step beside Daud, mask-less for once.  “On your way to visit our new resident genius?  Should be fun.” 

She managed to make _visit_ and _fun_ sound rather horrible. 

Daud hummed in agreement nevertheless and turned to Corvo, asking, “Do you want to question him?”

He shook his head and frowned.  “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather not let him know I’m here yet.” 

Daud had thought Corvo might be the more persuasive of the two of them, especially considering they had some history that didn’t involve spitefully ignored lectures on engineering, but it was his choice. 

When the reached the refinery, Corvo moved off toward the edge of the room where he could stay unseen.  Of course, there were two people crouched at the lip of the vat, doing Outsider only knew what and undoubtedly causing problems.  Daud barked, “Arden, Quinn! Cut it out!” and they leapt away like scalded cats.  Curiously, Rulfio also made himself scarce, transversing off somewhere just before Arden and Quinn did. 

Kieron took the initiative and hauled a damp and bedraggled Sokolov out of his cell.  “Unhand me, you—” he spat, and narrowed his eyes once he got a look at who he was dealing with. 

_"Daud.”_  

* * *

From the shadows, Corvo watched as Sokolov drew himself up to his full and not terribly impressive height, crossing his arms over his chest.  He jutted his chin forward, unfortunately increasing his resemblance to a billy goat.  “I should have known you’d darken my door sooner or later.  Though whatever you seek, you will not have it.  I am beyond your petty scare tactics.” 

Daud also crossed his arms, but on him the gesture was more bored than obstinate.  “Several months ago, you painted a noblewoman, Burrows’ mistress.  I want to know who she is.” 

“I elect not to tell you.  I know your business, and her inevitable fate should you learn her name.” 

Corvo scoffed.  If Sokolov had suddenly developed an altruistic streak, he’d have never started working for Burrows.  He would’ve never used _human subjects_ for testing plague remedies. 

_He knew me once.  And did much to set me on my path_ , the Heart whispered from Corvo’s pocket.  _What the aristocracy will pay for a portrait painted by Anton Sokolov! If only they knew how much he detests them!_ He lay his hand over her in acknowledgement.  

“Others’ wellbeing doesn’t concern you, your laboratory is evidence enough of that.  What is her name?” 

“I shan’t say.” 

_Not all his knowledge was gleaned from Academy books.  Some is gained from the maid-servants he beds._

It was a testament to Daud’s self-control that he didn’t move a muscle.  Corvo, though, ground his teeth and fought to stand still. 

“You were Royal Physician for how many years?  No loyalty to the Empress you served?”

_He thinks it the brand of sentimental fools._

Sokolov _harrumphed_.  “Fine words from a killer-for-hire.  I am loyal to my own inner spirit, and furthermore, the Lord Regent was elected by parliamentary vote after the Empress _died_.  If you have issue with that, I suggest you take it up with her murderer, though you’ll have a difficult time of it.” 

“You honestly believe Attano killed her?”  He said it like it was the most absurd thing in the world ( _which it was_ , Corvo thought), all the better to poke holes in Sokolov’s confidence.  And he said _Attano_ , Corvo noticed, not his first name, as though they weren’t—familiar with each other. 

“Any man can be bought, you should know that,” he sneered. 

“Including you,” Daud snapped, the first sign he was getting irritated.  Corvo was close to irate.  “How much does Burrows pay you for each arc pylon?” 

“ _Again_ , you are mistaken if you think there is any love between me and the Lord Regent.”  Sokolov drummed his fingers against his arms. 

“Then you should have no issue revealing the name of his lover.” 

“I refuse to help you.  I am not beholden to common miscreants such as yourself.  You will have to force the words from me, and I warn you, my willpower—” Sokolov started, and Daud just talked over him, saying, “Your _willpower_ doesn’t enter into it.  How long do you think it’ll be before you talk?  What.  Is.  Her.  _Name?_ ” 

And so they went, round and round, until Sokolov was red in the face and Daud looked like he wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake the answer out of him like a pebble from a shoe.  Corvo wanted to throw something large and heavy. 

_Such anger.  Make me look upon it no more._

Daud was loudly proclaiming something preposterous about having killed men without ruffling their hair when Corvo simply couldn’t take it anymore. 

“For fuck’s sake, Sokolov, _answer the fucking question!_ ”  He hadn’t intended to shout—hadn’t intended to speak at all—but it happened anyway.  He felt fit to burst, his heart pounding like he’d been sprinting and his breath quick enough to match.  Daud whipped around to face him, surprise and concern written all over his unexpectedly open expression. 

Sokolov went pale and looked like he was seeing a ghost.  “Corvo,” he breathed.  “I thought you’d died.” 

He didn’t dignify that with a response.  Sokolov was bright, he’d be able to put the pieces together. 

“I can only tell you so much,” he said, rather quieter than before.  “I was not permitted to see her face or hear her full name.  I painted her from behind, you see.  She called herself Lady Boyle, though I do not know which Boyle she is.  I was to formally meet her at the Masquerade Ball, though it seems I will not be able to attend.” 

Corvo turned on his heel and left. 

Behind him, he could hear Daud telling Billie to put Sokolov away, and her snippy answer of _fine_ , before footsteps followed him out onto the refinery’s balcony.  He remembered sitting there, weeks ago, looking out at the clouds.  The view had been better then. 

Daud hung back a few moments as Corvo crossed his arms, hung his head, and took deep, slow breaths, willing himself into stillness.  He couldn’t stop the reflexive flinch when Daud’s hand settled between his shoulder blades. 

“Are you going to be alright?” 

Corvo didn’t trust his voice yet so he nodded, chewing his lip.  He sighed through his teeth, and Daud’s hand started moving slowly, back and forth.  Back and forth. 

“I thought—I’d hoped—” He shook his head, unable to even begin to explain why Sokolov’s behavior bothered him so much.  “He delivered Emily,” he finished pathetically, as though that cleared anything up. 

Daud took away his hand, and Corvo suddenly, stupidly, missed it.  But then it was back, squeezing his upper arm, thumb rubbing circles. 

“Go,” Daud said, his voice soft.  “Get some rest.  I’ll deal with him.” 

“Alright.”  Rest did sound wonderful.  He’d spent all of last night in an irritable tangle of blankets.  Couldn’t get comfortable—no matter what he did, he ached.  Perhaps now he’d actually be able to sleep. 

He was so tired. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks again to everyone who reads, gives kudos, and comments, you guys are great


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daud is an _idiot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumblebumps is awesome, and has been a huge help :D

Once he had Emily off having fun with Dodge and Little Thomas, Corvo made his way back to the apartment, curled up, and finally went to sleep.  He woke up just in time to wolf down some food before going back to bed and jerked into wakefulness when Emily leapt on top of him the next morning. 

He mumbled something unintelligible, not yet up to operating temperature.

 _"Corvo_ , get up!”  She shook him hard, much more excited than anyone should have been that close to dawn.  “Corvo, it’s _snowed!_ ”

Being relatively far south and right on the sea, Dunwall rarely got much snow.  Sometimes a dusting would fall during the night, only to melt as the sun rose.  Even in all the years he’d been there, Corvo could count the number of times he’d seen more than a couple of inches at once on one hand. 

“How much?”  He sat up and shivered.  The apartment, never the warmest place at the best of times, was frigid. 

 _“Lots!”_ Emily cried.  “Leonid’s out in the hall, she told me to get bundled up, so I can go play in it with everyone else, but you _have_ to come too, let’s go!” 

She started pulling on his hand as if to drag him out of bed herself, but he used the other one to mercilessly tickle her ribs until she was a shrieking, giggling mess he could carry to her room and (carefully) drop onto her bed.  She landed in a dramatic spread-eagled flop, gasping for air. 

“Get dressed,” he told her, laughing, and kissed her forehead before leaving to do the same himself.  It was a good thing he hurried, because she came bounding through his door only a couple of minutes later, proclaiming _I’m ready!_ That time he let her pull him to the door, where Leonid and Thomas stood waiting. 

Thomas looked a bit silly with a knitted beanie jammed down over his curls, and Leonid had more scarves than was reasonable, but she took one off and draped it around Emily’s neck, asking, “Are you ready?”

“Yes!”  She gripped Corvo’s hand tight and took off down the hall, determined to spend as much time as possible enjoying the snow—not a bad plan by any means, it was probably melting from the ground up already.  Corvo carried her pig-a-back over the walkways, just in case, as Leonid and Thomas led them to the open courtyard on the far side of the rail station. 

There, nine or ten children about Emily’s age ran around in all directions, yelling with glee.  Dodge was building a fort, and Emily ran off to join her.  Inside a very clear border drawn a few feet away, Little Thomas was carefully making some kind of statue, but Corvo couldn’t tell what it was going to be.  A few kids were daring each other to walk across a large frozen puddle.  A few adults stood here and there, keeping an eye on things.  Montgomery and Samuel helped with snowman production—they’d brought noses.  Rulfio must’ve done something bad, because three children suddenly chased him down and climbed on him, bearing him to the ground and hollering _revenge!_   Then they stuffed wads of snow down his coat. 

Up on a rooftop, and Corvo discovered Arden and Quinn hard at work on a series of two-headed, many-armed monstrosities. 

“Must you?” Montgomery called up to them, gesturing at their creations.  “Those are dreadful.” 

Quinn gave one a third eye.  “Yeah!” 

Montgomery shook her head and handed a little girl a carrot. 

Daud and Billie stood under the tree in the middle of things, just taking it all in and watching as Leonid tried to coax one of the boys into wearing a scarf. 

“But I don’t _need_ it,” he whined.  “It’s barely cold.” 

“You’re not even wearing your coat,” Leonid said. 

“Because I’m not cold—”

“Wait twenty minutes and you will be.”  He tried to leave, pushing Leonid’s hands away.  “ _Misha_.”  Daud’s tone brooked no argument, so he allowed Leonid to tie the scarf around his neck, frowning sullenly. 

Boys. 

Corvo crunched across the courtyard to stand by Daud.  “Do you always give them a free day when it snows?”

He hummed in agreement.  “Most of them have never seen this much at once, except him.”  He tipped his head in Misha’s direction.  “He’s Tyvian, can’t figure out why everyone’s so excited when the river isn’t even frozen.” 

“I’ll be back,” Billie said, and abruptly blinked away. 

Daud frowned after her.  Very quietly, he said, “We’ll need to decide what to do with Lady Boyle.  Estate District’s security will be tight, I don’t want to go in without a plan.” 

“I have a few ideas.”  Corvo didn’t know if Daud would like them, but he thought they were fairly solid, all things considered.  Seeing movement in his periphery, he glanced over to see Quinn moving a bucket heaped full of snow from the roof to ground level.  “But we won’t be able to do anything until this clears up.” 

“True.”  Daud smiled (distractingly) at Dodge as she ran past.  “We’ll have time to think of something.”  Quinn moved another bucket.  “How’s Emily?” 

Something in Corvo’s chest did a pleased little lurch, and he allowed his expression to slip into something soft and fond.  “She’s doing well.  She took me to task the other day for not being careful enough, but I was able to convince her it was an accident.  You should’ve seen her when found out about all this.” 

Emily dragged Little Thomas away from his sculpture (a turtle) and over to the fort. 

One corner of Daud’s mouth hitched up.  “Montgomery tells me she’s friends with Dodge now.” 

“Yes, I got to hear all about her the other day.  It sounds like they’re both very taken with each other.”

A tremendous shrieking rose up behind them. 

“Good,” Daud murmured.  “She gave me a drawing yesterday.” 

“Really?”  He hadn’t heard about _that_. 

“Mhm, when I was at your apartment.  I don’t know—” Daud’s shoulders hunched up and he went an interesting kind of still as the spattered remains of a snowball slid off his ear and down his neck.  He turned very, very slowly to face whoever had thrown it. 

Everyone in the courtyard was perfectly silent and frozen in horror, but Leonid had one hand clapped over her mouth, the other still raised, her expression as guilty as could be. 

Daud vanished. 

When he didn’t immediately reappear somewhere visible, Corvo and the others started warily looking around, like they weren’t dealing with Daud, but one of the large and toothy taxidermy wildcats from Pandyssia that decorated the Academy. 

“Where’d he _go?_ ” Arden said. 

“I dunno.”  Quinn turned a slow circle.  “Now you’ve gone and done it.” 

“I didn’t mean to!”  Leonid looked more upset than Corvo thought she should’ve been.  “I was aiming for Dodge.”

“Hey!” she said. 

Corvo thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, but once he turned his head to look, it was gone.  

“Do you think he just left?” one of the boys—Misha, Corvo reminded himself—said. 

Rulfio huffed.  “No.” 

Again, Corvo saw movement, and that time he found Daud perched on top of a rickety awning directly above Leonid, holding Quinn’s bucket, which was heaped full of snow.  He grinned, crows’ feet crinkling—evil, _evil_ man—and tipped the entire contents over her head. 

She screamed, blinked a few feet away, and whipped off all her scarves before they had a chance to drip down her neck.  _“I didn’t mean to hit you!”_  

Daud laughed, hoarse and rough, and rocked back on his heels, looking far too satisfied with himself.  Emily clapped her hands over her mouth just a moment too late to stifle her snort at Leonid’s indignant muttering, and Corvo couldn’t help it—he leaned against the tree and let himself look like an idiot, smiling down at his boots as his ears burned.

* * *

Old Dunwall Whiskey was famous because it was popular, and it was popular because it was _cheap_. 

Corvo contemplated the dusty bottle in his hand.  Aside from something he suspected was home-brewed that he didn’t dare touch for multiple reasons, it looked to be his only option.  Not a great option by any means (and he didn’t believe for a minute the Whalers didn’t have other booze stashed away somewhere, he just couldn’t _find_ it), but it would have to do.

* * *

_It’s difficult to predict what will happen in the Legal District now that the barrister is warming a cell in Coldridge, but the situation can hardly deteriorate any further.  Based on the information Thalia gave us, I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty that Delilah is a witch, mostly likely operating out of the Brigmore estate with all the rest.  The fact that she chose to appear at a séance, painting my name, could indicate more interest in me than I appreciate, but her intent could have been to frighten Timsh and nothing more.  However, until I have more information, Delilah will have to wait._

_One of the Ladies Boyle is Corvo’s next target, though we’ve no idea which.  There won’t be a perfect time to move, as too many of those in the Estate District can afford to keep the Watch or a retinue of mercenaries on duty ‘round the clock, but sometime just after their masked ball might be as good as any.  I have no doubt the Lord Regent will try to manipulate the other two sisters into funding the military after we eliminate the third, but the Boyles are ruthless, not stupid.  The death or disappearance of one will send message enough—_

Daud looked up at the sound of squeaking hinges and quiet footsteps.  Corvo walked in, holding a bottle of something in one hand and a couple of mismatched glasses in the other.  He started to say something, but stopped and said, “I didn’t know you’re left-handed.” 

Daud glanced down at it and his glove, which had ink smudges running up the pinky side from wrist to fingertip.  “I am.”  Corvo kept frowning at him like he wanted him to elaborate.  “I learned to fight right-handed, the man that taught me didn’t know or care to reverse everything.” 

Corvo hummed and held out the bottle.  “Do you care for whiskey?  I found this earlier, and it’s just Old Dunwall, but—” he shrugged.  “I thought we could drink it if you’d like.” 

Daud sighed.  He did need to finish updating his logbook before details grew fuzzy, but the prospect of sitting there in his office in the cold and damp, writing until his hand cramped, wasn’t nearly so inviting as the idea of going someplace else and having a drink with Corvo, even if it was Old Dunwall.  Besides, they did need to make some sort of plan for the coming days. 

That settled it. 

He rose and ambled over to Corvo, wondering why he looked so surprised.  “Where to?” 

“The archives.  It’s drier there,” he said.  He looked oddly tense on the walk over, his shoulders a tight line a few ticks higher than what was probably comfortable.  But the archives were indeed dry, and as warm as any place in Rudshore ever got to boot, and they settled into a pair of sagging armchairs conjured up from Outsider only knew where.  A little oil lamp burned on a table nearby.  It was almost cozy. 

Corvo poured them both a couple of fingers and passed one over, seeming to relax a bit.  Daud accepted his glass and swirled the whiskey about in the bottom, studying the way it caught the light.  “We’ll need to make a move on the Boyles soon.  Security may relax after the ball, but didn’t you say you’d thought of something?” 

“I did.”  He took a deep breath, and said, “I could always go in through the front door.” 

Before his brain quite caught up with his mouth, Daud said, “Out of the question,” like he was talking to one of the Whalers and not to Corvo, _stupid_ —

Hurt flashed across his face, just briefly.  “As long as I can get in, I’ll be fine.  I had to attend court functions for twenty years, I know how these things go.” 

Daud made himself slow down and actually think before he spoke again.  “I don’t doubt that, but if something went wrong, you might be on your own.  We should wait, let things die down a bit, and then go.” 

Corvo took a sip and grimaced, though at the taste or the plan, Daud didn’t know.  Both were equally likely.  “All three sisters are guaranteed to be at the ball.  As long as we can learn which one we need, we can deal with her then.  Otherwise, we’ll need to do reconnaissance and get into the estate anyway, learn where she goes, take multiple trips.  It’s risky.” 

“Do you know what you want to do with her?” 

“No.”  Corvo looked down at his glass.  “If—if I have to, I could kill her, but that’s a last resort.  The Boyles are far from the worst of the nobility, and if it’s Esma—” he broke off, sighing slowly through his teeth.  “She has a daughter.” 

 _Ah_ , Daud thought.  He sipped at the whiskey to buy some time, mulling everything over.  Corvo _did_ have experience navigating parties, much more than any of the other Whalers, and it _was_ a masquerade, so he’d be safe behind some frilly abomination until the unmasking, at which point he should be safely back at Rudshore. 

Of course, he’d have to figure out which Boyle they needed, lure her away, and quietly do something with her without being noticed, but most of the guests would probably be too deep in their cups to notice or care that one of the hostesses had vanished. 

“You’ll need clothes,” Daud said.  The uniform wouldn’t do, even as a costume.  “Leonid could tailor them if they need it.” 

Corvo nodded slowly.  “And I won’t be able to get in without an invitation.” 

Both of them fell silent, thinking.  Stealing one outright from someone might get Corvo stopped at the door, if the intended owner decided to fuss.  Daud remembered Treavor Pendleton, dead and almost certainly on the guest list, but the Pendletons were all small and reedy—anyone with even a passing familiarity with the family wouldn’t be fooled for a minute.  He certainly couldn’t use Sokolov’s invitation, his disappearance was probably known far and wide already. 

“I wonder—" Corvo said, and cut himself off suddenly, bringing one hand up to rub at his chin. 

“What is it?” 

“The art dealer, Bunting.  Slackjaw must’ve thought he had something valuable, what if he was invited?”  

“I suppose he might’ve been.” 

“It might be worth checking to see.  As long as I can get into the party, I’ll be fine.”  Corvo’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.  “Much to the entire court’s surprise, a kid from the Batista District _can_ learn which fork goes with what.” 

Wait. 

“You’re from Batista?”  Daud had known Corvo was Serkonan— _everyone_ knew that—but he’d never imagined they might both be from Karnaca. 

Corvo looked like he was having much the same train of thought and nodded slowly.  “What about you?” 

“The dockyards.”  _Where everything reeked of fish_ , he thought.  That wasn’t as bad as the dust he knew sometimes hit Batista if the winds were right though, so he kept his mouth shut. 

“I’m surprised I never met you, it felt like my sister and I were always on that side of town.  Where’d you live?” 

There was a little place in Daud’s chest that hadn’t done anything but hurt for thirty years, and Corvo might as well have reached over and jabbed it with all the gentleness of a back-alley dentist looking for a bad tooth.  But he couldn’t have known, he reminded himself as he took a fortifying gulp of (honestly dreadful) whiskey and poured himself some more with hands that suddenly didn’t want to cooperate. 

“I was probably long gone by the time you were making trips.”  He sounded strange even to himself. 

And Corvo didn’t understand, saying, “Don’t talk like that, you’re hardly older than I am.  Did you move?” 

“In a sense.”  Billie, Leonid, and Montgomery were the only other people that knew parts of what he was about to say, and he stalled just as he’d done before telling them—fidgeting, trying in vain to get comfortable.  Corvo waited patiently for him to get around to talking, even if he did look more and more worried the longer the silence dragged on.  “I was abducted from school when I was twelve, spent the next few years moving around, learning to fight.  Left when I was sixteen, came here.  Managed to get into the Academy for a season, and the Outsider—black-eyed bastard—decided I was _interesting_ the next spring, in 1820.  Started picking up Whalers not too long after that, and I think you know the rest.” 

Most of his life, pared down into four sentences. 

And he didn’t know what difference it could possibly make, but if anyone had the right to ask what had happened, it was Corvo, who was wearing the strangest stricken expression. 

“Daud, I— _Void_.”  He’d been able to pick apart what he’d actually _meant_.  “That’s awful, I’m sorry.” 

He shrugged.  “It was a long time ago.” 

Corvo covered his mouth with one hand, and asked, his voice low and urgent, “You said you were twelve, what year would that have been?”

“1807.”  But what did _that_ have to do with anything?

“I remember one day a woman came to the house—she was tall, dark-haired—wanted to talk to my mother.  I wasn’t supposed to listen, but I heard her say she was looking for her son.” 

No.  _No_ , it just wasn’t possible. 

“She had an accent I didn’t recognize though, and I can’t recall her name, but—”

“Alima.”  His blood rushed in his ears, and it felt so _odd_ to say it, after so long.  “Her name is Alima.” 

“You’re… certain then?”

“If it was the fall of 1807, then yes, I’m sure.”  It came out harder and sharper than he’d intended, but Corvo was relentlessly digging fingers into places he usually avoided thinking about. 

“She searched the whole city for you,” he murmured. 

“She needn’t have bothered, I was on a boat to Bastillian before the day was out,” Daud bit out, bitter. 

“Would—would you want to talk about it?”  

 _“No.”_   Corvo’s voice was soft and earnest, but he balked at the thought of telling any more than he already had.  It came out all wrong though, and when Daud risked a glance, Corvo’s expression was very flat.  “I would rather not, right now.”

(Void, but his eyes were so dark.) 

“I see.”  Corvo drank the rest of his whiskey and sighed.  “This stuff really is awful.” 

“Mhm.” 

The archives were very quiet when no was speaking or moving around, quiet enough to hear some animal scuffling around in the walls. 

“I ought to go,” Corvo said suddenly, and walked away without another word, but not without lightly touching Daud’s forearm on the way past. 

Daud stared at his retreating back with the growing sense that he’d done something terribly wrong.  He just didn’t know _what_.

* * *

“So, Sokolov and Piero have moved into their new lodgings, _thank_ the _stars_ , but I hear they can’t manage to accomplish anything for arguing.  Apparently Sokolov is antiquated and Piero’s a moonstruck fool, but I can hardly care because they are leaving me alone.”  Montgomery flipped a page in her latest bodice-ripper.  “And it’s awful to say, but I enjoyed watching Arden and Quinn trying to interrogate Piero.  I’m not sure what they wanted, but they were _very_ persistent.  He was horrified.” 

And that was interesting, and possibly cleared up the mystery of what they’d been about to do to Sokolov, but Daud stayed quiet. 

“What’s gotten into you?”  Montgomery closed her book around her finger and fixed him with a Look.  “And don’t try to say _nothing_ , you’ve been morose all evening.” 

“It’s not important.” 

_“Daud.”_

_Damn_.  “I think I upset Corvo earlier.” 

That got her attention.  “What did you do?” 

He shrugged.  “I’m not sure.” 

“Alright.”  She tucked a scrap of paper in the book and set it aside before turning to face him.  “Tell me exactly what happened, I’ll try to help.” 

He sighed.  “He came by earlier and asked if I wanted to go have a drink, so we went to the archives and talked.  We decided how to go after Lady Boyle, so I’ll need to make arrangements for that, and Corvo mentioned he’s from Karnaca as well.  And—”

“Go on, that can’t be all.”  Montgomery sounded bizarrely excited, and he shot her a frown. 

“He said he spent a lot of time at the dockyards and seemed to think we should have met.  I—told him what happened, and we talked a bit about that, but then he acted upset and left.” 

She picked up her book again, trying and failing to keep a smirk off her face.  “Well, that’s hardly a difficult mystery to solve.” 

Daud sat there a few moments trying to puzzle out what she could mean, but she just sat there, looking much too pleased.  “What?” 

“Oh come now, you can’t tell me—”  She really looked at him then, and realized exactly how baffled he was.  “Oh no, Daud, you _didn’t_.” 

“Didn’t _what?_ ” 

“That was a _date_ , he was upset because you probably weren’t responding _at all_.  You didn’t even turn him down properly, poor man.”  She pointed her book at him and said, very seriously, “And I know it’s counter to your nature, but you need to decide how you feel about that sooner rather than later, because if you do want to pursue something with him, you’ll have to fix this.  I would bet money you hurt his feelings, badly.” 

And Montgomery wasn’t a betting woman, ever.

* * *

Later that night, at opposite ends of the district, both Corvo and Daud lay awake, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, wondering where he’d gone wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> Arden and Quinn's snowmen were based on the snow goons from "Calvin and Hobbes" 
> 
> Because Daud is the Arabic form of David, I picked an Arabic name for his mom. According to the websites, Alima means “learned/wise.” 
> 
> And I'm not one of those cool people that can put together a chapter-by-chapter playlist for a whole fic, but [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gyi3N-y-GM4) is the Corvo song for this chapter. 
> 
> As always, thank you guys so much for reading, and giving kudos, and commenting! :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long. Do please read the end notes this time, thanks :)

Corvo was prepared to admit his idea had probably been doomed from the start.  Daud had been surprisingly friendly, yes, and they’d cultivated a much better relationship than Corvo would have ever expected ( _than they should have at all_ , whispered a small voice he was trying to ignore), but _friendly_ seemed to be where his feelings began and ended, if Daud could even think of them as that after Corvo had gone prying. 

If he’d slowed down and thought for a moment, he might’ve realized that a person in Daud’s position most likely had some kind of painful past that he wouldn’t want to talk about.  But he hadn’t, so there he was. 

He really didn’t know what he’d expected—people didn’t just become assassins at the drop of a hat. 

The sound of shouting drew him out of his thoughts, and he pushed the workshop door open, wondering what it could possibly be _this_ time.  The resident natural philosophers didn’t get along even on a good day, but to Corvo’s surprise, they weren’t the ones in disagreement.  Daud and Sokolov stood in the middle of the room, arguing, and Piero was pointedly ignoring them, hunched over a pile of parts on a table along one wall. 

“It’s a foul habit,” Sokolov declared.  “Disastrous for your health and repulsive to boot, I will not allow it here.” 

“I don’t care whether you _allow_ it or not, I’ll smoke if I want to.”  Daud pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Give me the wristbow.” 

If anything, Sokolov tightened his grip on it.  “I can’t imagine Florence appreciates it either.  Doesn’t she make you step out?” 

In the way of someone who had no earthly idea how that that related to anything at all, Daud said, “That’s none of your concern.” 

“Perhaps not, but it is hers.  While I question her taste,” he said, and Daud made a strange face, “I daresay she would rather you live longer than you will if you keep on as you have been.  And speaking of taste, I’ve heard from multiple sources that ki—”

Daud looked horrified.  “Damnit, Sokolov, just—”

“If I may,” Piero ventured, “While Anton is correct, Daud is perfectly within his—”

_“Joplin—”_

“Noted.” 

Corvo, still unnoticed by the door, decided to intervene.  “If Sokolov’s done with your wristbow, everyone else is ready to leave.” 

Everyone looked at him like children caught doing something they shouldn’t.  Daud snatched the bow before Sokolov recovered and fled, still looking mortified.  Neither of them spoke until they made it down to the docks, not that it was a terribly long walk.  Corvo thought it would be best to keep quiet, avoid saying something he might regret about Daud’s relationship with Montgomery—or lack thereof, apparently, and some stupid part of him eased at that thought—and not endanger their friendship any more than he already had. 

Both boats were ready and waiting, Samuel in one and Rulfio in the other.  Leonid, Fisher, and Quinn stood talking, all three carrying rucksacks. 

“Tell me where you’re going again.”  Daud looked over the wristbow, probably checking that Sokolov hadn’t made any unwanted changes. 

“Stanbury’s, in the Tower District,” Leonid said.  “They’re not much ones for frills, I thought you might appreciate that.”  She nodded in Corvo’s direction. 

He nodded, grateful. 

“And Emily and Little Thomas are with Montgomery?” 

Corvo tried to squash the feeling that came along with Daud saying that, because frankly, it was absurd.  He was nearly forty years old. 

“They are.  Oh, and Little Thomas must be taking a leaf out of Dodge’s book; he wants to use Wyman now.”  Leonid smiled.  “He made sure I had it right this morning.” 

Daud paused in fixing the wristbow to his arm and grunted _huh_.  He seemed almost disappointed.  “Alright, let’s go.” 

Corvo frowned.  That name sounded very familiar for some reason, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d heard it last.  He put it out of his mind for the time being though.  There were more important things to focus on, like what they could do if Slackjaw didn’t have or wouldn’t give them an invitation. 

It was a unique kind of torturous to go downriver, crammed into the Whalers’ ancient little boat, and carefully make sure he didn’t touch Daud at all, even— _especially_ —accidentally, more for his own sake than anything else.  His only consolation was the thought that he’d been this exact kind of insufferable with everyone he’d grown feelings for. 

It was going to be a long trip. 

* * *

“Here we are, ladies,” Samuel said, cutting _Amaranth’s_ engine and letting them drift to a stop at the docks behind a bar.  “This is as close as I’ll be able to get you.  Enjoy your shopping.”  He winked. 

Leonid huffed a laugh, adjusting her rucksack.  “Thanks, Samuel.  We’ll be back soon.” 

“So how are we getting there?” Fisher murmured.  “I’m sure you have a plan, but the main avenue runs all the way to the Tower, it’ll be crawling with City Watch.  Makes me nervous.” 

“Yeah, I came here earlier, to check.  The Lord Regent put in a rail line and it’s got some kind of fancy archway with a wall of light built in, we’ll be able to go over it and cross the street that way.  Stanbury’s isn’t far, just a little past the Boyle bank.  Up here.”  She transversed onto the bar’s air unit, followed by Quinn and Fisher, and the three of them crept around the building on the ducts. 

The street was lit up bright as day with spotlights and had a truly ridiculous number of guards about.  Most of them seemed to think they didn’t need to be there and stood around, smoking and chatting amongst themselves.  They probably weren’t wrong; the wall of light was already turned on for the evening, sparking and crackling menacingly as Leonid led the group over it.  From there they were back on pipes and ductwork, navigating darker side streets until they reached their destination. 

The sign read _Stanbury and Sons’ Haberdashers_ in curling letters above nice, big windows with stained-glass accents.  If anyone had been around, they would’ve heard one of the much smaller windows on the third floor shatter and a muffled voice say, “ _Shit_ , that was loud.” 

As it was, no one heard them but the rats. 

Quinn, then Leonid, then Fisher squeezed into the dusty attic room above the actual shop, crunching over what was left of the window. 

“Alright.”  Leonid rubbed her hands together.  “Most of their stock should be on the second floor.  Grab everything you can, and don’t worry if it looks big.  I’ll be able to trim it down if I need to but I can only let it out so far before I run out of fabric.” 

The three of them crept down the stairs and fanned out in the stockroom, grabbing anything and everything at hand and cramming it into their bags. 

“Does he actually _need_ all this?” Quinn asked, holding up a jeweled pin.  “What’s this even for?” 

Leonid glanced at it.  “It’s for cravats and yes, he does.  Parties like this are mostly an excuse to show off, so if his clothes aren’t right the other guests will talk.” 

Quinn grunted _huh_.  “Sounds about right.”

“I’m getting some masks,” Fisher said.  “I don’t want to crush them; I won’t be able to get much else.”  She paused.  “These are all hideous.” 

Leonid snorted.  “Just do your best.” 

By the time they left, they’d gone through just about every drawer and cabinet in the place and were heavily laden with around half of Stanbury’s ready-made stock.  Their rucksacks were heavy and awkward and made the return trip a bit stressful, but they got back to the bank in one piece. 

“Hello again, ladies, how’d the shopping go?” Samuel said as they squelched through the mud toward him, and raised his eyebrows when the three all let their bags thump into the bottom of the boat, glad to be shed of the weight.  “Good heavens.  Lord Corvo ought to be able to find something to wear out of all that.” 

“It went well, I just hope I can make something fit.”  Leonid popped her neck.  “If I can’t, I don’t know what we’ll do.” 

“I’m sure you can, miss.  I saw what you did with that boy’s coat.  I thought it wasn’t fit for anything but the garbage, the state it was in.” 

She smiled faintly behind her mask.  “Thanks, Samuel.”

“Anytime.  And even if none of this works, I’ll be happy to take you someplace else to try again.” 

* * *

“How’s your knee?” 

Rulfio shrugged, sipping air through his teeth.  “It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it’s still not quite the same.  Monty only let me go on this one because it should be easy.” 

“Mhm.” 

“It took some convincing, but I had to get out and do _something_.  I was getting stir-crazy, she could tell.”  He glanced over toward the Distillery District, looming out of the fog.  “What do you think Slackjaw’s going to do?  He was friendly last time we were here, but he wanted something then.” 

Daud exhaled slowly.  “I’ve no idea.  What do you think?” 

Corvo didn’t even notice someone was talking to him as he stared out at the water, focusing on the way the ripples spread out over the water.  It was easier to do that than think about not thinking about Daud. 

“Corvo.” 

“Hm?”  He startled slightly and blinked. 

Daud frowned at him.  “I asked what you think Slackjaw will do when we get there.” 

“Ah.”  He shook the mental cobwebs down and thought back.  “He was happy when we gave him Bunting’s safe combination, so he should be willing to at least listen to us, I should think.” 

“We can hope, at least,” Rulfio said. 

Daud hummed, still frowning slightly.  “Everything alright?” 

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said, a bit too quickly if he was being honest.  “I was just thinking.” 

“Mhm.”  They came to a stop, bumping against the quay.  Rulfio barely had a chance to tie the boat off before Daud told him, “Scout ahead, let me know if anything’s happening.” 

Corvo started to put his mask on, thinking that was a bit odd, Daud almost never separated the group, when he caught him by the elbow and said _wait_.  He lowered the mask, working his way toward well and truly confused because Daud looked a kind of uncomfortable he hadn’t been in a long time, not since Corvo was still half-convinced he was going to slip up and reveal that breaking him out of Coldridge had been part of an elaborate plan to kill him all along. 

“Corvo, I—”  One thing hadn’t changed, though, Daud was still terrible at this kind of conversation.  He inhaled deeply and said, “I was an ass, the other day.  I wanted to apologize.”  He shifted awkwardly and finally pulled his hand away.  “Shouldn’t have said what I did.” 

Of all the things Corvo would’ve expected to hear, that had not been on the list.  It was his turn to fumble with his words before saying, “I wasn’t holding it against you.” 

“I appreciate it.”  Daud glanced down at his boots, and when he looked up eyes were that eerie solid black.  He said, “Rulfio’s coming back,” and stole away on quiet feet, leaving Corvo to wonder what all that had actually _meant_. 

He didn’t feel any closer to figuring it out when they all crept into the grounds of Bottle Street’s distillery over the heads of a few of Slackjaw’s men. 

“Word is, he’s like a phantom, with an army of shadows in front of him.”

“That guy Daud?  Ain’t he just a boss?”

“No, no.  This is one odd bird.  Consorts with crazies, does rituals and the like.  Bone charms and such.”

“You sound afraid.” 

“Damn right I am.  Daud ain’t no ordinary man.  Touched by the Outsider, he is, given dark powers.  He can slit your throat across the room.” 

Corvo snorted. 

“I don’t know.  Leon saw him the other day at that art dealer’s, said he seemed pretty ordinary to him.” 

“I swear it’s all true.” 

“Yeah, yeah.  You still owe me a beer from a week ago, I ain’t forgotten.”

Daud jerked his head toward the distillery door and they all blinked in front of it, startling the man sitting in a chair beside it into spilling his drink.  He froze and stared at them, wide-eyed. 

“I’d like to speak to Slackjaw,” Daud said, crossing his arms and making it clear he wasn’t planning on going anywhere until he did. 

The man nodded and hurried inside.  A few moments later he returned, said _this way_ , and led them to a room overlooking the stills.  When Slackjaw heard them approach, he abandoned the ledger he was writing in and straightened up, spreading his hands wide.  “Hello again, my masked friends.  What can Slackjaw do for you today?” 

“We’d like to know if Bunting had an invitation to the Boyle masquerade,” Corvo said.  “And if he did, whether you still have it.” 

He grinned at them, gold teeth shining.  “Looking to get into the party?”  Corvo nodded, and Slackjaw stroked his moustache with a forefinger and thumb, thinking.  “Big thing, red envelope?” 

“That should be it.”

“It’ll be in my office.  Slackjaw doesn’t want to go, no, and you came through with the safe combination.  Made me a tidy bit of profit, so I’ll let you have it.  But Bunting had something else you ought to see.  Follow me.” 

Corvo glanced Daud’s direction, thinking that sounded ominous, and Daud shrugged slightly, raising his eyebrows, almost as if to say _if that’s what it takes to get the thing_.  Corvo fell in line with the others as Slackjaw led them through the distillery, wondering what it could possibly be. 

The office was in the back of the building, nestled in among barrels and barrels of whiskey set to aging on racks.  Nothing looked terribly odd at first; there was a cluttered desk, a small still, a couple of taxidermy animals hung up on one wall, one of Slackjaw’s wanted posters, and—

Corvo almost lost it right then and there. 

A painting—a _Sokolov_ , no less—of _Daud_ dressed in one of the blue Whalers’ jackets, gazing severely into the middle distance, was propped up against the back wall.  Every part of it was so true to life Corvo immediately had _many_ questions, but those were going to have to wait, because Daud was having a much stronger reaction. 

He snarled wordlessly, pulling a small knife from somewhere, and advanced on the painting with clear ill will. 

That just wouldn’t do, not least because the painting was Slackjaw’s (if stealing counted as taking possession) and there was absolutely no telling what he would do if it was damaged.  Corvo lunged at him and tried to say _wait, stop_ , but he was laughing so hard he just made a strange, strangled noise instead.  Daud tried to shake him off, but he clung to his arm like a limpet, trying to hamper his progress as much as he could.  Void, he could barely _breathe_ because Daud was red-faced and furious over a painting _he must’ve sat for_ , Corvo realized, and then he had to use Daud to even hold himself up because he was in serious danger of collapsing in the floor and laughing himself sick. 

(No one noticed, but Rulfio was standing perfectly still in shocked silence because it _existed_ , the damn thing was real, everyone had been looking for it for _years_ and he was going to have to go home and say he’d seen it without any _proof!)_

“Don’t—don’t,” Corvo managed.  “You shouldn’t be angry, really it’s a very good likeness—”

“ _Corvo_ ,” Daud started, and he knew he was only digging his own grave deeper, but he couldn’t resist, saying, “Honestly, I think we ought to compliment Sokolov, it’s a _good painting—_ ” 

Daud really did escape his grip that time, turning to Slackjaw to demand some kind of explanation, and found him leaning heavily against a column and wiping his eyes. 

“Show like that, you can have it for free,” he wheezed, flapping a hand toward the desk.  “Just take it, oh Void.  Leave the picture alone, I’m going to sell it.” 

Daud stalked across the room, whipped the invitation off the desk like it had personally offended him, and left without another word.  Rulfio and Corvo followed him, and Corvo tried to contain himself, he really did, but he was afraid Daud could hear him failing all the way out of the building and partway across the yard until he finally managed to calm down. 

Once they were out on the street, he nudged Daud with his elbow as one of Slackjaw’s men shut the door behind them.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t’ve made fun.” 

Daud huffed a sound that might’ve been cousin to a chuckle shook his head.  “I wasn’t even sure that thing existed.” 

“Really?” 

“Mhm.  Someone caught wind of it somehow though, I know the others have been looking for it for years.  Arden and Quinn probably put them up to it,” he grumbled. 

Corvo sighed, trying to make it sound wistful.  “It’s a shame they won’t ever see it then, I know some of the nobility on the other islands are absolutely fascinated with you—”  He cut himself off when his brain caught up with his mouth and he remembered exactly where he’d heard the name Wyman.  He turned to Daud and hissed, “You’ve been hiding a _duke_ this _entire time?_ ”

He looked completely lost.  “What?” 

“Thomas _Wyman_ ,” he said, outraged without really knowing why.  He felt a strange kind of vindication when Daud’s expression shifted to clear understanding and continued with, “Duke of Morley who’s been presumed dead for _over a year._ ” 

“Corvo, I’ll explain,” Daud started, but Corvo didn’t really want to hear it. 

“The family came as representatives to discuss aid, I was out with the Watch looking for him for a month, it was a _diplomatic incident_ , I thought he was going to turn up somewhere as a _weeper_ and Jess would have to tell—”

“Corvo, calm down—”

He only took that advice as far as getting a bit quieter.  “But no, he just spent Outsider only knows how long on the _streets_ before you happened to find him, thank the stars, there’s—”

“He was perfectly—”

“ _Don’t_ say safe, nobles’ children are absurdly sheltered, Daud,” he said, and tried to think of a metaphor he could use that would involve one of the Whalers.  He couldn’t because they all seemed like they’d be able to weather just about anything, really, and his train of thought came to a halt when Daud turned him such that they were directly facing each other, one hand holding his shoulder with a grip just shy of hard. 

“He was _fine_ ,” Daud said.  “Burrows hired us for his parents, but when we got there, they were already—”

“Dead of plague.”  They’d been found in their bed, holding one another.  Fever had taken them before they could become weepers. 

“Yes, but they hadn’t been gone more than half an hour.  Little Thomas was upstairs, asleep, and he agreed to come with us as soon as we told him what happened.  He was never in any danger.” 

Corvo suddenly wanted to lie down.  He settled for pushing his mask up onto his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Outsider’s eyes.”  Daud at least looked as grim as he felt.  “How did he not catch it?” 

He shook his head.  “I gave him the arcane bond as soon as I could, that seems to help protect against sickness.  We burned his clothes and Montgomery kept him on a double dose of elixir until he passed a reasonable incubation period.” 

“Damn.”  No wonder he was so serious, and no wonder he and Emily got along so well.  He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be woken up in the middle of the night by the Whalers, even as friendly as some of them were, and find out both his parents had died.  And as smart as Little Thomas was, he had to have known there was a chance the very same thing might happen to him. 

Daud sighed.  “We ought to go, Rulfio’s probably waiting.” 

Corvo nodded.  It was getting late, and he wanted to give Emily a hug.

* * *

A day later, Daud was enjoying his coffee when Thomas slid the _Dunwall Courier_ across the table towards him, folded up so that a specific article was front and center.  

“We made the papers,” he said, starting in on his breakfast.  “Well, some of us.” 

The title read _Best-Dressed Thieves in Dunwall?_ and showed a sketch of the storefront.  Daud turned it his direction and started skimming.  It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.  Stanbury’s had been robbed, the owner only found out when he opened the next morning, the thieves had come in through the window, no one had seen anything.  The reporter did raise the question of how exactly someone had gotten up so high, but then he started in on a theory that it was a planned attack by a rival business hoping to steal customers looking to get a new outfit for the masquerade. 

“How much longer will Leonid need to work on the clothes?” 

“She hasn’t been able to start yet,” Thomas said.  “She sorted it all into sets yesterday and I think she’s going to do the fitting today.  Beyond that, I don’t know.” 

Daud hummed, thinking.  They didn’t have long to get everything ready, but they weren’t down to the wire yet either.  And, he realized, Leonid’s work probably had a lot to do with how whatever Corvo picked out fit.  He’d have to find one or the other of them later and ask.  He gulped down the coffee dregs and stood.  “If you see her, tell Leonid I’d like to speak with her.  I’ll be in my office.” 

Thomas nodded vaguely and kept working on his food.  As he walked, Daud thought about what Montgomery had said the other day about Corvo and needing to do something to…smooth things over.  Because if she was right (and it always seemed like she was, especially when it irritated him), he’d been trying to accomplish something, and Daud had gone and mucked it up. 

He didn’t think he’d ever been on a proper date in his life, but he was just about certain that wasn’t how they were supposed to go.  And, if he was being honest, it hadn’t been bad until it was, so it would be worth it to try and do something, even just so they could remain friends.  Corvo had been a bit…odd for a few days. 

He could think about whether he wanted anything beyond that later. 

And for some reason, there was someone in his office, so he stepped in wondering what could be wrong this early in the morning.  

He looked around in confusion as he discovered it wasn’t just one person, it was a full-scale invasion.  Montgomery, Fisher, Quinn, Leonid, and Emily _and_ Dodge _and_ Little Thomas—Wyman, Daud corrected himself—were all scattered around.  They’d dragged in a table from somewhere and it was piled high with what could only be the spoils of Leonid’s theft, sorted into piles.

He was just about to ask what in all the Isles was going _on_ that required all that when Corvo came down the stairs.  He’d been put in a mauve jacket with a high collar, a very stiff-looking shirt, dark pants, and shiny boots that came up to the knee and didn’t look very pleased about it. 

“Oooh,” Leonid said, resting her chin on her hand.  “The fit’s not half bad, I think I could make it work pretty easily.”  Corvo grimaced.  “But you hate it.” 

“I can barely move.” 

“Alright, we’ll try something else.”  She started sorting through the pile and held up a very pale thing that might’ve been slightly orange if Daud squinted.  “Oh, no, that’s just awful.  Blue suits you though, see how this one works.” 

She shoved it into his hands and just before he went back upstairs, he sent Daud a look that was a plea for death condensed into a glance.  Daud really couldn’t blame him. 

“How’s all this going?” he asked. 

“Um, not very successfully, but there’s still plenty of options left.  I’m sure we’ll settle on something soon.”  There was a little crease between Leonid’s brows that said she was worried, though. 

“Dr. Montgomery, look at this one!”  Emily pointed, laughing. 

“Oh my,” she said.  “Egg yolk.” 

“This one won’t do,” Corvo called from upstairs. 

“Why?”  Leonid was starting to look stressed, and Daud couldn’t even tell her not to worry because he knew just as well as she did how important the blasted clothes were. 

“I can’t even get the jacket on,” he said.  “It’s too narrow.” 

“Alright, bring it down.”  She dug through the pile, talking to herself as she did.  “No, no, that one would look awful with his complexion, oh, Void…”

“How much of his complexion are they going to see?”  Quinn spoke around a mouthful of egg from her place on the floor. 

“She has a point.”  Fisher held up a beige jacket.  “This one looks possible.” 

“Ugh, no.”  Leonid wrinkled her nose.  “That’s a last resort at the _worst_.” 

“I’m just saying.” 

“I know, I’m sorry.”  She ran her hands through her hair and held it, piled up on the back of her head.  “I’m just worried we won’t have the right thing.” 

“Leonid, dearest,” Montgomery said.  “Look how much we have left.  And don’t let him hear, but as long as he’s in fashion, it doesn’t matter so much if Corvo hates it.  He just has to look the part for a while.  It will be _fine_.” 

“I suppose that’s true.”  Corvo came back and she asked, “So was everything else alright, it was just the jacket that was too small?” 

He nodded.  “The shirt’s a bit tight in the shoulders and I’d like to get some different boots if I can, but it’s all close enough.” 

“Okay, good. Try all this,” she said. 

He vanished again, and Daud wondered just who decided that his bedroom would be the best place to do all this, and _why_.  Corvo was back soon—he really didn’t have that much to change—and Daud stopped to really look at him, because he made quite the picture. 

This time, it was a long, deep green jacket with gold buttons that shone in the morning sun.  Corvo turned, and Daud saw it split into tails with just the slightest bit of matching gold embroidery by the hem.  Cream shirt.  Black trousers and boots that looked like they’d be just as good for running as dancing. 

Did people dance at that kind of party?  Daud had no idea. 

Leonid gasped, Montgomery clapped her hands together, and Fisher said _now there we go!_   Quinn might’ve grunted appreciatively around another bite of food. 

“Oh, it’s _perfect_.”  Leonid grabbed the pincushion and started fussing over the way the jacket lay until she exclaimed, “Masks!” 

“They’re all still ugly.”  Fisher glanced at them, deeply unimpressed.  “Actually, I think some of them might look better if I had squashed them.”

“He has one already,” Quinn said.  “Can’t he just wear that one?” 

“Oh, Quinn, you’re brilliant.  Wyman, go get Corvo’s mask, hurry.”  Corvo tossed him the key he was off like a shot, transversing away toward the apartments while Leonid finished with the pins.  He popped up again faster than Daud thought he would, panting and with that awful thing Piero had made in hand. 

For some reason, Daud had had trouble imagining Corvo at the kind of functions he’d mentioned attending.  Daud had been to nobles’ parties, if not the usual way, and he seemed like he wouldn’t enjoy them enough to really fit in.  But when he put the mask on, he changed something about his posture as well and strode back and forth across the office with all the presence of a lord—more, even, because he was tall, broad-shouldered, and Daud could see the muscles he’d gained back shifting slightly under his clothes. 

He looked _good_ , Daud realized. 

Montgomery was right. 

_Shit_. 

But then he stopped, pulled the mask off, and he was just Corvo again, hair mussed and smiling slightly as he asked, “Am I done, then?” 

All the women agreed that he was _finished_ , they wouldn’t be able to find anything better than that.  He shucked the jacket off and handed it over, so they could decide where to put a few extra stitches to adjust the fit while the kids crowded around to watch. 

Corvo came to stand by Daud toward the edge of the room and crossed his arms.  “I suppose I’m almost ready to go, then, though I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.” 

“Parties not your element?” 

“Outsider’s eyes, no.  I’d be perfectly content never going to another one, especially since some people consider dinner for fifty and dances afterward ‘a nice quiet evening.’”  Daud couldn’t do anything but stare in amazement.  It must’ve been the right thing to do, though, because Corvo grinned, one corner of his mouth hitching up higher than the other.  “Exactly.” 

Daud stood there racking his brain for something to say that wasn’t completely asinine, morbid, or both. 

(He didn’t see it, but across the room Montgomery rolled her eyes at him in silent despair.  It didn’t help that she could see him very deliberately timing how long he looked at Corvo before he forced himself to pretend to pay attention to something else.)

He was just about to try and say nobles’ parties had always seemed awful to him when Leonid asked Corvo to come back so she could check something.  He touched Daud’s arm before moving off—it seemed like he was always _doing_ that—so Daud took the chance to slip away unnoticed, even though he was the strangest kind of disappointed with himself that he did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guessed who Little Thomas is, congratulations! I just wanted to go ahead and mention that Wyman is eventually going to figure out that they're nonbinary, and use he and they pronouns. They're just 13 here though, and haven't gotten there yet. 
> 
> As always, I hope you liked this one! :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some [party music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgHaYXX7O3I)!

The morning before the party found Daud at his desk, looking over maps of the Estate District and nursing a cold cup of coffee.  The Boyle estate was practically right on a canal, so getting close wouldn’t be a problem, but there was sure to be a lot of security, and that worried him.  Daud knew _he_ would be able to get in without a problem, but he wasn’t going as a guest.  Corvo would look like all the others, sure, but if the Watch stopped him, would he be asked to take off his mask? 

Of course, he could always sneak in as well, but if the other partygoers got nosy, started asking questions they shouldn’t, like _how did you get_ _in here_ , he might start running into problems. 

Daud sighed.  Perhaps he was worrying too much.  He reminded himself that Corvo knew what he was doing, knew the way everything would work, and second-guessing him was only insulting.  He’d done that already, and he was trying to take the lesson to heart. 

He went back to the map.  There was a sewer entrance nearby that looked possible—unless it was underwater.  Best to just rely on the rooftops.  Someone came in the office and walked toward him, but he largely ignored them, intent on making some kind of plan, if for no other reason than to make him feel better. 

He wasn’t looking forward to walking in without even knowing who he was after. 

“So, how are things between you and Corvo?” Montgomery asked, leaning one hip against the desk.  One corner of her mouth kept twitching up like she was trying to hide a smile. 

Daud frowned at her.  “Fine.” 

“Just fine?”

“What else am I supposed to say?” 

Montgomery shrugged.  “I don’t know, but people tend to say _fine_ when they mean the exact opposite.  I just saw you two talking the other day and thought I’d ask.  He looked rather dashing in that jacket, didn’t he?  It’s a shame I don’t think he’s ever going to wear it again after tonight.”

That time, Daud looked at her askance, eyes narrowed.  He didn’t trust the turn the conversation was taking.  “I didn’t pay that much attention.” 

She hummed like she didn’t believe him.  “Well, I rather liked it.  I saw Thomas earlier and—”

“Which one?”

“Big Thomas.  He told me you were only taking him and Leonid, what about Billie?  I thought she was best at this kind of work.” 

“She said she had other business that needed attention.”  She hadn’t told him what, only that it was important and no, it couldn’t wait until some other time.  He wondered if it was the same thing that had been pulling her away for months, and if so, what in the Void it might _be_. 

“Hm.  I must admit I’m worried about her, she’s been dreadfully distant lately.  I hope she’s not in some kind of trouble.” 

“You and I both.” 

“I suppose time will tell,” Montgomery said softly.  “And do you know if Corvo is going to wear gloves?  We can’t have him carted off for heresy, Emily and I would miss him terribly.” 

Oh, Void, he hadn’t thought about that.  He pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “I’ll ask him when I see him next.” 

“Which should be very soon, I think he’s trying to find you.  You really should tell the poor man where you’re going to be, it would make his life much easier.”  She lay a hand on his shoulder and pressed her fingers into the muscle.  “That was the other thing I wanted to mention—forewarned is forearmed and such.”  He wasn’t about to say it, but he did appreciate that.  “And good luck with the party, though I hope you won’t need it.  I’m glad you and Corvo are _fine.”_

Daud could hear the smile in her voice but didn’t even have the chance to sigh heavily in disapproval before she disappeared, using a rare transversal—she said they made her queasy.  He saw why when Corvo stepped in a moment later and brightened, giving him another of those crooked smiles that made him look like he was up to no good, saying, “There you are, I’ve been looking for you.  I’ve made a plan and wanted to see what you thought of it.” 

“Of course.”  Daud started moving his notes out of the way so he would have better access to the map, but he just sat down on the edge of the desk like he belonged there and started drawing out a rough floorplan on the back of one of the papers. 

“The house is laid out about like this,” he muttered.  “I’ve only been on the ground floor, but I know there’s a balcony here”—he tapped the pen against the sketch—“that overlooks the garden.  You should go in that way and search upstairs, there has to be _something_ up there tying one of the sisters to Burrows.  I know they set up some kind of party game every year, and unless that keeps me from leaving, I’ll check in with you at intervals until we know who I need to talk to.”

“What will you do then?”

“That depends.” 

Daud nodded slowly, thinking.  It sounded as good an idea as any, and he was willing to defer to Corvo’s judgement.  He glanced up to tell him so and caught him looking back, rolling the pen between his fingers, until he seemed to remember himself and blinked, focusing back on the floorplan. 

“It all sounds fine to me,” Daud said.  “Will you wear gloves, this evening?”

Corvo shook his head.  “I’m already going as the Masked Terror, everyone will think I painted the Mark on as part of the costume.  They’ll love it.” 

“If you say so.”  He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, saying, “I’m bringing Leonid and Thomas, Emily will have to stay with Montgomery.” 

“She’ll like that, Wyman and Dodge usually come over as well and they all have a bit of a party.”  Corvo’s eyes seemed to catch on the cigarette as he took a drag, but he continued with, “I suppose she’ll need an overnight bag, I doubt we’ll be back before midnight.”

Daud hummed and flicked a bit of ash into the floor.  He didn’t really feel qualified to comment. 

Corvo stretched and stood.  “I’ll see you this evening then, getting Em packed tends to be an all-day event.”

And as soon as the office door closed, Daud sighed, feeling like he’d missed an opportunity somehow. 

* * *

Corvo hadn’t missed formalwear. 

He much preferred the Whaler uniform—practical, all of it was so _practical_ —to starchy things he thought he might crack in half if he bent too far.  He couldn’t fit his wristbow under the sleeve of his coat, and his arm felt naked without it.  He wasn’t going anywhere without _something_ though, so he moved to put the folding blade in a pocket…

Only to discover that it was sewn shut.  No, not even that—the tailors had just put on a flap and a button and stopped there, probably so he wouldn’t even think about carrying anything and ruining his silhouette. 

Corvo sighed through gritted teeth and stuffed the knife into the back of his waistband, where it hopefully wouldn’t show.  That felt dangerous, but the mechanism was a bit tricky to operate, so he didn’t really think he was going to maim himself on accident. 

He studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror.  He should blend in without any problems, but he wished he’d thought to ask Daud if he could use some of whatever he put in his hair, just to keep his own tidy under the mask’s straps since he wouldn’t be able to take it off to adjust it.  Except—no, he wouldn’t have been able to do that.  He frowned at himself, feeling a bit disgusted again.  Void. 

“Em,” he called, layering his Whaler’s coat on over the green one for warmth, “are you ready to go?” 

“No,” she shouted, and Corvo gazed up at the ceiling in exasperation, thinking _child, you had the whole day_.  “I can’t find one of my crayons!”  Outsider’s eyes, if she’d lost one of those again, they might be stuck turning the apartment upside down for half the night.  “Wait, I found it!” 

“Now are you ready?” 

She came around the corner and stood in the doorway, proudly brandishing a red crayon.  “Yes!  It was under the table.” 

“Alright, put it with the others.  We need to go.” 

Emily went a thoughtful kind of quiet as they walked to Montgomery’s, until she suddenly asked, “Corvo, did you know who Thom—Wyman is?” 

“Not until a few days ago, why?” 

She hummed.  “I remember I was supposed to meet him.  Last year.” 

That was true, they were meant to be playmates and keep each other occupied while Jess spoke with the Grand Duke and Duchess, who’d wanted to send aid on account of the plague.  They’d even wanted to send the right _kind_ of aid, so Jess invited them to get a firsthand look at things, but they’d died before even setting foot in Dunwall Tower. 

“Why didn’t he just tell me?” Emily said, sounding a little hurt.  “We sent letters, he knew I wanted to be his friend.” 

“I don’t know.”  He privately agreed with her but had suspicions, ranging from wanting the Whalers to treat him like any other kid and not a sheltered nobleman to just wishing to get to know Emily on his terms.  “You’ll have to ask him, but if he doesn’t want to say, don’t push.” 

“Okay.  I’m glad we’re friends now, though.” 

“So am I.”  He pushed the infirmary door open and Emily was immediately tackled by Dodge, who started dragging her off toward Montgomery’s living area, talking excitedly about being _almost_ done with her scarf.  Corvo followed them and set Emily’s bag on the sofa. 

“Ah, hello Corvo,” Montgomery said from the kitchen, where it looked like she and Daud had been having dinner.  “You look very nice.” 

“Thank you,” he said, trying to find Emily so he could tell her goodbye.  In his periphery, he saw Montgomery lean over and say something to Daud, too quietly for him to hear.  Whatever she told him made his ears light up red, and he wondered what it could possibly have been. 

* * *

“I see you looking,” Montgomery murmured.  “ _Now_ will you admit he’s dashing?”

“The clothes suit him.” 

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite restrain a very mischievous half-grin, smug in her victory.  “Oh come now, it’s not just the clothes.  His eyes are a lovely green, that jacket would bring them out wonderfully if he didn’t have to wear a mask.” 

And Daud didn’t think, he just mumbled _brown_ into his mug, because Corvo’s eyes weren’t green and he knew it.  As soon as he said so, Montgomery leaned back in her chair, looking almost obscenely pleased with herself, and he briefly contemplated drowning himself in his tea to avoid ever having to deal with the fact that he’d walked right into her trap. 

_“Oh,”_ she said.  “You _have_ been paying attention.” 

Daud glared over the rim of his mug. 

She softened and lay a hand on his forearm.  “I’ll stop.  And I’m not trying to sway you one way or another, but,” she faltered, searching for words.  “If you decide not to pursue something, don’t just shut him out, alright?  He _does_ like you, and I’ve seen him when he comes to pick Emily up, he can be very sweet.  Do be kind to him.” 

He nodded.  He hadn’t yet been able to say, for certain, whether he wanted a…relationship with Corvo (and whatever exactly a relationship might entail—in fact, that might have been a large part of the problem; he was trying to choose between something he understood and something completely foreign to him, and how was he meant to do _that?_ ), but he knew, at least, that he didn’t want to stop being Corvo’s friend and had no plans of shutting him out, as Montgomery said. 

“I see you thinking.”  She squeezed his arm and withdrew.  “And I think Corvo and Emily are done saying goodbye.  Good luck with everything.”  Louder, she said, “Emily, Wyman, Dodge, would any of you like cocoa?” 

Daud walked into the infirmary, where Corvo stood doing _something_ with his shirttail, wearing a look of intense concentration.  He stopped when he realized he wasn’t alone and straightened up, smoothing down his clothes. 

“I don’t have a good place to put my knife,” he said, looking faintly embarrassed.  “It isn’t exactly comfortable where I put it.” 

“What did you do with it?”  He couldn’t see it anywhere and peered at Corvo from this way and that, looking for the thing.  

“Here.”  He reached under his coats again and pulled it from somewhere at the small of his back.  “It stays in place, but the pants are snug, and the waistband gets awfully tight once it’s there, and I’m shit out of luck if I need to sit down.” 

“What about a pocket?”

“I don’t _have_ any,” he groused.  “Evidently carrying things is for the lower class.”  Daud crossed his arms and looked Corvo up and down, suddenly much less impressed with his clothes.  Sure, they looked nice—better than nice—but damn.  A person deserved a working pocket.  “And I’m not going anywhere without a weapon, so this is as good as it gets.” 

“You’re not carrying a wristbow?” 

He shook his head.  “I couldn’t fit it under my sleeve.” 

Daud frowned, thinking he hadn’t been worrying too much after all.  “So you’re only going in with a knife.” 

“What other choice do I have?  It’s not like I can take anything more.” 

He sighed, shook his head.  “I still don’t like it.” 

“I know.”  Corvo tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.  “I’ll be fine.  And think of it this way; it would be horribly impolite to arrest me and disrupt the party for everyone else.” 

Despite himself, Daud couldn’t help but laugh once through his nose.  “Well, when you put it that way.  Come on, let’s go.”

* * *

“Good grief, the Lord Regent’s pulling out all the stops for the Boyle family.  I didn’t know there’d be a tallboy patrolling here tonight.”  Samuel steered them up to a small quay that was barely more than a few planks of wood up against the side of the canal.  “Watch yourselves out there, they don’t fool around.”

Daud knew exactly what tallboys could do, and sighed slowly through his teeth, resorting to methodically popping each his knuckles in place of smoking.  He liked this job less and less.  Corvo pulled off his Whaler’s coat and tucked it under the seat, looking grim. 

“Enjoy your evening out with the folk of quality,” Samuel continued.  “Better you than me.” 

“Leonid, Thomas,” Daud said, “look for a way in.  Corvo, with me.”

A loudspeaker nearby crackled to life and broadcast, _Attention citizens: please clear the streets.  This area is restricted to invited guests only, by request of the local landowners.  Unauthorized intruders will be expelled or apprehended on sight._

Because there was nowhere else to go, they all went up onto the street, across the way from the Boyle estate.  Leonid and Thomas melted away into the shadows and Daud motioned he and Corvo behind a Watch checkpoint. 

“Here.”  He dug through his pockets and pulled out a pair of bonecharms.  “Take these, they’ll be good in a fight.”  He’d brought them along in case he ran into trouble upstairs—it would be just his luck for the Boyles to have a few guards roaming around, protecting the silverware.  But Corvo needed them more than he did.  “I wish you were wearing gloves, there might be Overseers—”

He tucked the bonecharms into a boot and said, softly, “Daud, I’ll be fine.  I’m not going to pick a fight with any of the guests.” 

“It’s not _you_ I’m worried about”—except it _was_ , that was the problem—“I just want you to have the advantage if someone gets any bright ideas.  Put your mask on.” 

Corvo gave him an odd look but did it anyway before reaching out to squeeze his upper arm, thumb rubbing circles.  “I’ll be alright.” 

Daud shook his head.  “I’m following you.” 

He nodded, adjusted his clothes slightly, and started walking confidently down the street like he had every right to be there.  Daud stayed just behind him, transversing from streetlight to streetlight undetected.  A pair of guards stood near a bridge spanning the canal, and he moved closer to hear what they were saying. 

“This place gives me the creeps.  Didn’t old Granny Rags used to live right here?” 

Oh, Void, not her. 

“Who, that crazy old lady?”

“They say she used to be a noblewoman until her whole family died off, that she sold them to the Outsider.”

“How about this: you do your damn job, and I watch out for scary old ladies.” 

One of them shouted _halt!_ and Daud froze, thinking Corvo had been found out, but he was talking to the tallboy operator, keeping him from coming any closer. 

“The party is this way, sir,” a guard said, gesturing at the bridge.  Corvo nodded, somehow seeming perfectly unruffled, and kept walking.  Another man standing at the gate opened it for him, and he strode in, out of view. 

Daud forced himself to breathe and _calm down_. 

* * *

Corvo exhaled slowly and reached for his invitation, hoping his hands weren’t shaking too much.  For a moment, he’d thought _he_ was being stopped and was suddenly very, very glad Daud had followed him.  They could’ve taken care of it, he knew, but it was better that they didn’t have to.  He passed the invitation to the Watch officer in the gatehouse and overheard a small knot of guests talking as the man skimmed it, probably checking to make sure it was legitimate. 

“Do you know about tonight’s game?” 

“Oh, yes.  They’re going to wear the same costume in different colors, and we’re meant to guess.  Another of their eccentric fancies.  I suppose we’ve no choice but to play,” said a man, sounding deeply bored.   

So, they weren’t making it clear who was who.  It was a masquerade though, no one technically knew who anyone was until the unmasking ( _as if_ , Corvo thought), so it didn’t actually make his life that much harder. 

A woman in a frankly horrifying baby mask said, “It’s going to be brilliant.” 

“It’s going to be _in_ expressibly tiresome,” said the man. 

Then the Watch officer must’ve decided everything was in order.  “Right this way, sir.” 

And the last thing Corvo heard from the baby-masked woman was, “Life is so boring.  I’d _die_ without gossip.” 

He frowned, stepped through the doors into the estate proper, and the officer greeted him, bowing at the waist.  “Welcome, sir.  The Boyles hope you have a wonderful time tonight.” 

Corvo nodded and carried on.  He only saw a very few guests out in the garden, and they were leaned together, whispering to each other.  Probably comparing notes on their progress with the game.  At the door, another officer also bowed and let him into the foyer. 

It looked almost exactly as it had the last time he’d been there, but for a few extra decorative touches—whale statues that spat confetti, lamps clustered on the floor, and he could see a cloth drapery that hid the ceiling running down one hall.  An Overseer with a music box stood guard as well. 

Perhaps he should’ve worn gloves after all. 

But the guestbook sat on a little table to his left, and after only the briefest moment’s consideration, he made his way to it and signed his name—his own name—just as he always did, the letters narrow and sharp and leaning a bit to the right. 

He fought to keep his shoulders from shaking and bit his lip almost hard enough to bleed to keep from cackling as he watched the ink soak into the paper. 

He’d like to see what Burrows made of _that_. 

* * *

Daud eased up the stairs of the abandoned building ahead of Leonid and Thomas, sleep darts at the ready.  Even though it was in the Estate District and literally next door to the biggest party in the city, it looked like exactly the kind of place weepers tended to hide.  He blinked hard to pull the Void across his eyes, not wanting any surprises. 

But the place was empty, and he went from the balcony onto the air ducts of the adjacent building, which looked like extra storage space for the Boyles, probably, and then up to the roof.  From there he could see the balcony Corvo told him about.  A guard stood there, smoking and looking down at the garden, but it was easy to transverse behind him and wind an arm around his neck.  Daud carefully lay him on the stones when he went limp.  “Take a look around in there, I’ll be in shortly.” 

When Thomas and Leonid left him, he sighed, reaching for his cigarettes and lighter.  Thinking Corvo was about to be hauled back to prison had rattled him more than he really wanted to admit.  He took a deep lungful of smoke and held it there, leaning against the wall and tipping his head back to look at the fireworks before exhaling all in a rush. 

He _had_ to decide what he was going to do. 

Especially since not deciding was starting to feel like a decision itself, or at least Corvo seemed to think so, based on how he’d gone a bit quiet and subdued for a few days after the disaster that was their trip to the archives.  He’d recovered, was practically back to the way he was before, but Daud was realizing he hadn’t liked the period in between. 

He didn’t like starting something without having _any_ idea of what he was supposed to _do_ , either, but—

He trusted Corvo. 

Just as much as he trusted Billie (and Leonid and Montgomery and Thomas), but the feeling was a bit different.  He knew Corvo wouldn’t do anything just to wind him up like she would (and had). 

And he was very handsome, there wasn’t any point in trying to deny that, even to himself.  They were friends, somehow, and Corvo certainly seemed to want something, and—

Daud trusted him. 

He ground out his cigarette under his bootheel.  That settled it. 

He was willing to try. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the comments and kudos, y'all are great <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [party music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgHaYXX7O3I) again, for atmosphere
> 
> Also many many thanks to Jumblebumps for looking at That Part :D

Corvo stepped away from the guestbook and looked out across the foyer, wondering which group of guests he should talk to first.  A few were in a knot just a few feet away, but he could see several others in the billiards room to his right. 

The Heart beat once against his chest and she whispered, _Don’t be fooled if you hear laughter, or happen upon a smile.  There is no lightness or merriment here._

He hummed quietly, unsurprised, and started eavesdropping on the two women and man standing nearby. 

“ _Excuse me,_ my cousin is a marquis.” 

“Of course, I didn’t mean _you_.  But this kind of party, with people as desperate as they are?  Anyone might have crept in.” 

“I suppose that’s true.  The Boyles are awfully wealthy these days…”  One of the women finally seemed to notice him.  “Oh, hello there.  My, that mask is wicked, it’s almost exactly like the wanted posters!” 

Corvo inclined his head, smiling thinly, not that anyone could see. 

“It’s going to cast a pall over the whole evening.”  The man adjusted his cravat.  “I think I’m finally starting to enjoy myself.”

The other woman spoke up.  “I was just saying I tried for a peek upstairs earlier, to look for clues, and the man on duty is an _ass_.  He won’t let you past for anything.” 

“I still think that’s cheating,” the first woman sniffed.  “But if you really want to win, you might talk to Miss White, in the moth mask, I believe she’s in the library.  She’s a mind for puzzles, and I hear she’s lonely anyway.” 

“Oh, would you stop it!  It’s a masquerade, you’re ruining all the fun!” 

“What?  Everyone knows it’s her.  She and Ramsey are practically joined at the hip, and it’s not like _he’s_ making an effort.  I was just being direct for our friend.”

Because he could sense an argument incoming, Corvo bowed shallowly, hoping to flatter the women into letting him go.  “And I appreciate it.  I’ll speak to her at once.” 

It worked, and he could hear them giggling as he walked away, trying to remember everything about Adelle White he could.  She was the granddaughter of some incredibly rich businessman, had he been in timber, perhaps?  Whatever her family history, Corvo had only seen her at the bigger parties and special court functions, but just from the handful of times he’d spoken to her, she seemed friendly and genuine, even if she did tend to flirt a bit too much.  He didn’t think she had a truly malicious bone in her body, unlike far too many people.  She would be a good ally. 

And then there was Ramsey, hadn’t Daud said he hired Abigail Ames to blow up Rothwild’s slaughterhouse?  He wondered if Miss White knew about that. 

He was so lost in his thoughts he nearly ran into one of the Ladies, dressed in red.  Her mask was unnerving; a sharp, angular face framed with roses that also piled on her hat, all in the same bright scarlet as her clothes. 

“Welcome to my party,” she said.  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”  Her intonation was strange, oddly flat like she was reciting a line from a book—which made sense, the sisters were probably all using that greeting to avoid giving away their identities.  Without waiting for him to reply, she walked away. 

He stepped into the library and deliberately started pretending to read the books’ titles so he could listen in on Miss White and someone that could only be Ramsey, in a whale mask. 

“You, a gentleman?” 

“I’ll have you know, I’m as gentle as I need to be in any given situation.  As I think I’ve demonstrated.” 

Corvo raised his eyebrows.  That wasn’t something he’d expected to learn.    

He heard her swat at him.  “I _told_ you not to mention that.  Now I know you’re not a gentleman.” 

“I do mean what I said, though,” Ramsey murmured.  “We could leave, go to Serkonos, or further.  I don’t trust what’s happening here, too many people are disappearing.  First the High Overseer—”

“But wasn’t he branded a heretic?” 

“Yes, but under _very_ mysterious circumstances.  Then all the Pendleton brothers vanished, along with Sokolov.  Someone came for Rothwild as well.  It’s beginning to look like a pattern to me.” 

Miss White sighed.  “If we were in Serkonos, who would manage your business?” 

“My brother is more than capable—excuse me, do you mind?”

Corvo wondered if Ramsey was talking to him and turned to find both of them facing him.  Ramsey had his arms crossed, looking less than pleased judging by body language alone.  Miss White touched his arm.  “Oh, leave him be.  It’s a party.”

“This is a private conversation.” 

“It’s a _party!_   It’s called mingling.”  She tilted her head, antennae brushing Ramsey’s whale.  “Don’t be so dour.” 

“Mingle all you want then.  I’ll see if anyone here is any good at billiards.”  He slipped out of her grasp and left them. 

When they were alone, she looked him up and down appraisingly and said, “You’re a scandal in that mask.  I like a man with poor judgement.”  Corvo couldn’t help but sputter a laugh, amazed that she would just _say_ something like that, and she brought her hands together and clasped them in front of herself, apparently delighted.  “Oh, I think we’ll get along fabulously.  Are you playing the party game?” 

“Of course.”  And he was, from a certain point of view.  He was just after a different prize. 

“And what would you say to a bit of teamwork, hm?  The Boyle cameo is worth rather a lot, you know.  We could split the reward.” 

“That sounds lovely.” 

“Oh, marvelous.  Come then, let’s walk.  I’m dying for a drink.”

* * *

Daud sighed, resisting the temptation to have another cigarette.  He didn’t have all night to stand outside and smoke, there was work to be done. 

“Sir.”  Thomas left the door open and came to stand beside him, alone, Daud noticed.  “Four guards are meant to be patrolling, but they’re all talking to one another.  There’s very little cover, we’ll need to knock them out to search.”

“Do you need me to bend time?”  Leonid and Thomas both had gotten every power but that, unfortunately.  Billie, Montgomery, and Wyman (he still wasn’t used to that, but he was getting better at remembering which name to use) were three of a very small group that had received that particular gift. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He couldn’t ask for a better reason to go inside, and so followed Thomas into a bedroom decorated almost entirely in red.  Thomas muttered _this way, sir_ , and led him to a bizarre little attic access jammed up against the ceiling.  In there, a painting of Burrows leaned up against a wall, gathering dust.  They passed it and went down into another bedroom, this one all in black.  Leonid crouched by the door with her eye to the keyhole, mask abandoned on the floor next to her. 

“They’re still talking,” she whispered.  “I think they’ve been up here a while, they all want something to eat.” 

“Let me look.”  She moved and Daud bent down to see for himself, glad for the plush carpet under his knee.  All four of them were officers, standing just on the other side of the door, not doing much of anything. 

“See if Marci’ll bring us up a few of those cakes.  And a pitcher of ale.”  

“Why don’t _you_ ask her?  And a fifth of whiskey.” 

Void, if they wanted to drink like that, they’d make themselves unfit for work and Daud wouldn’t even have to do anything. 

“Forget it.  She’s not going to risk her job for us, not in these times. 

“I don’t like this.  They put four of us up here, that’s not a regular deployment.” 

Oh, they were _thinking_. 

“Tell me about it.  All of us guarding an empty hallway, what’s that mean to you?” 

“Relax, we’re just the reserves.”  That one was the youngest, he didn’t have any grey in his hair. 

“In case what, Lady Boyle tries to shake down one of her guests?  It’s something else.  You can feel it at the party, though, everyone’s nervous.  Something’s coming.” 

 _Something_ wasn’t five feet away from him and looking forward to standing up again, because _something’s_ knee was going hurt if he didn’t. 

“I wish it were Marci,” said the young one, petulant.   

“Just stay alert.” 

That sounded like the end of the conversation, so Daud bent time before they could wander off and flung the door open to send a dart into each of them.  (Downstairs, Corvo stood very, very still, wondering how ten or so seconds could feel like such an eternity.)  They thudded heavily to the floor when time resumed, and Leonid winced.  “I hope no one heard that.” 

 “I doubt anyone noticed over the music.”  Thomas heaved one guard up onto his shoulder.  “I’ll get these out of the way.” 

“Leonid, get a look around,” Daud said.  “I’ll start in the other bedroom.” 

He didn’t have a good reason to not search the one he was in first, other than wanting to know about it immediately if Corvo decided to come up and see what they’d done.  He knew, logically, that they’d only been there a few minutes and he’d probably take longer than that, but still. 

He’d start with the red room. 

It was immaculate in the kind of impersonal way that said the owner didn’t do any of the cleaning herself and gave that task to the maids.  There wasn’t even a favorite set of earrings left out.  He started opening dresser drawers but didn’t find anything interesting, and the chest at the foot of the bed only held clothes and a vial of Piero’s elixir. 

He rocked back on his heels and sighed, wondering where he could look next.  If there was proof in this room, it would be written down, in a journal or a note—unless it had been destroyed, and surely not; apparently Burrows wasn’t keeping the affair a secret. 

He hadn’t yet checked the bathroom though, perhaps there was something in there. 

And there it was, laying on a table just inside the door—a diary with some little artistic curlicues embossed on the cover.  He opened it to the last used page and started skimming, but it was all just detailing about the party, some griping about someone had declined their invitation (apparently, she’d been looking forward to seeing her), a note to remind the servants to keep the cider fountain _full_ —that was underlined twice.  The last entry was very short. 

_Finally!  Tonight, tonight, tonight!  The party is going to be so fabulous.  I shall bed the first man to ask for it.  And the second after that!  I am so sick of these dark, awful times.  Every day is as dreary as the one before.  But not tonight—tonight is for the living!_

Well, it looked like the rumors about Esma were true.  And that didn’t sound like the writing of someone in a relationship with Burrows, so feeling slightly disturbed, he put the journal back where he found it and moved on.

* * *

“No peeking, now.”  Miss White wagged a finger in joking disapproval and shifted her mask up to get a drink. 

Corvo made a show of looking away, studying the whole shark on the buffet and wondering how, exactly, it had been cooked.  It was at least four feet long. 

 _The others gossip behind her back_ , the Heart whispered.  _They think her too kind and call it weakness, or a falsehood._

He would believe it. 

“There now, I feel much better,” Miss White said, looping her arm about his and steering him out of the room.  “Now, I’m not certain, but I believe Lydia is in red.  She caught a fellow beating away at the piano earlier and almost had a fit before she remembered herself.”

“Is that so?” 

“Yes, he was drunk already but I think he’d gotten a head start.  This way dear, we should be able to talk without being overheard.”  She led him into what was clearly the smoking room, with its thick cloud floating around the ceiling.  Corvo felt his throat tighten up and nearly doubled over in a coughing fit, it was so powerful.  “Oh no, are you alright?  Are you _sick?”_  

There was real fear in her voice, and Corvo held up a hand, trying to be reassuring.  “No, no, I’m fine.  I must have breathed something in,” he lied.  He thought that sounded better than _I don’t know how you people can stand it in here._

She visibly relaxed and patted his arm.  “Oh, I understand.  Wait just a moment, I’ll get you a drink.”  Then she hurried away, antennae waving, and Corvo tried to breathe slowly and force himself to get used to it.  Even Daud would probably think it was excessive, he thought. 

While he waited, he heard someone mentioning Waverly Boyle, over and over, talking about her like she’d hung the moon.  He turned, hoping to catch a glimpse, and found a man in a dreadful mask (was it a rat?  He wasn’t sure) cornering some poor soul that looked trapped but was apparently too polite to tell the other man to fuck off and bother someone else. 

The whole time, he rambled on and on about his darling Waverly and how wonderful she was in the most revolting, sickly sweet tone of voice Corvo had ever heard.  He sounded well and truly infatuated, but once Corvo started really paying attention, hoping to overhear something about what color she was wearing, he noticed that while the man could talk for ages about how beautiful, and graceful, and enchanting she was, he hadn’t yet mentioned doing anything with her like they were actually a couple.  It was all about _his_ Waverly, but he wasn’t so much talking about _her_ as he was describing a woman Corvo didn’t think actually existed. 

He frowned, glad to notice Miss White returning with cider. 

“Here you are, dear,” she said, pressing it into his hands. 

“Thank you.”  He took a couple of sips and leaned down to murmur, “Please tell me, do you know who the man in the rat mask is?” 

“Oh, that’s Lord Brisby.  I’m surprised he’s here, I heard he caused a bit of a scandal in Parliament a month ago.”

Corvo hummed.  “He seems obsessed with Waverly.” 

“Yes, he’s been like that for a while now.  She won’t have anything to do with him.” 

He couldn’t blame her.  Glancing at the clock, he found he’d been mingling for nearly twenty minutes already.  It would be a bit fast for Daud to find something, but he might’ve gotten lucky.  Besides, he just wanted to make sure everything was fine.  He drained the rest of the cider, abandoned the glass on a nearby table like everyone else seemed to be doing, and told Miss White, “I’m sorry, I think I just need air,” letting himself cough a little more for effect. 

“Oh, alright.”  She sounded a little despondent and he remembered the woman from earlier calling her lonely, but he didn’t feel too bad because he should be back soon.  He told her as much and left for the garden, trying not to look like he was hurrying too much. 

He didn’t want to spend another minute in the smoking room if he could help it. 

It was a bit of a trick to blink up onto the balcony, but he did it while the only guard out there had his back turned (everyone else had gone inside, it was _cold)_.  He let himself in and caught sight of Daud striding down the hall to another bedroom. 

“Daud,” he called softly, and he immediately turned and started walking his direction, looking torn between worry and relief, expressions written across his face much more openly than usual. 

He stopped and gave him a once-over, almost like he was checking for injuries, and asked, “Have you found anything?” 

Corvo pulled his mask off and shook his head.  “Not much.  The sisters are wearing the same costume in different colors, and I know Lydia’s in red.  It looks like Waverly has a stalker as well, but I don’t know more than that.” 

Daud frowned.  “Who is it?” 

“The stalker?  Someone said his name’s Brisby.” 

“Hm.  I don’t know him.”  Daud walked into the gallery and sat in one of the window seats, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and lighter. 

“Have you had any luck up here?” Corvo asked.  Daud glanced up at him through his eyelashes as the cigarette caught, the faint yellow glow from the lighter catching on the angles of his face, and something about that made Corvo’s gut clench up and he was very glad Daud probably wouldn’t be able to see him flush in the half-dark.  All the same, he looked away, ears burning. 

“Some.  You’ll be pleased it’s not Esma, but I know too much about her personal matters now.” 

That was enough to get Corvo’s attention.  _“What?”_  

“I had to look through her journal.”  Daud crossed his arms and pulled his shoulders up, perturbed. 

Corvo raised his eyebrows.  “She writes it down?” 

“Evidently.” 

“Oh.” 

“There’s another bedroom over there”—Daud jerked a thumb toward the walkway running over the foyer.  “Leonid and Thomas are checking it now.” 

Corvo nodded.  As much as he didn’t want to, “I should probably go back down, then.  I’ve teamed up with Adelle White and told her I needed some air, but she’ll start wondering where I am soon.  Good luck.”

* * *

Daud watched Corvo go and sighed, resting his forehead in his palm.  Another chance wasted.

* * *

Downstairs, as Corvo watched one of the servants carry an immense jelly mold to the buffet, the Heart murmured to him, _If only she had a coin for every time she stubbed her toe_ , and he was struck by an idea.  Feeling very stupid, he hurried into a bathroom, locked the door, and pulled her from his pocket, wincing when she pulsed against his fingers (even now, months later, that felt _wrong)_. 

“Jess,” he said.  “Do you—can you tell me who I’m looking for?” 

 _I cannot…see_ , she said, mournful.  _They hide themselves behind masks and costumes, pretend to be people they aren’t.  Happy, and carefree.  Only the servants see no need to hide._

He sighed.  That would’ve been too easy.  “Alright.  Thank you.” 

He moved to tuck her back in his jacket, but she beat once more and said, _The Knife—he is restless.  Too much could go wrong, out of his sight.  He fears an imagined loss._

Corvo stilled.  “What do you mean?” 

 _You have become…dear to him._   She sounded less than pleased.  _Though he can barely name his own emotions._ That certainly sounded like Daud, but Corvo didn’t have time to do more than blink in confusion before she continued.  _And somehow, he is dear to you._  

“I—Jess—he—” 

 _You need not explain,_ she said gently. _I do not forgive him, but he is not the man I once thought.  So many things weigh on him, day and night.  Too many to count._ And as she said before, months ago _, His hands did violence, but there is a different dream in his heart._

“Jess, what do you _mean?_ ”  He could feel his pulse starting to kick up, thudding against his ribs. 

_I do not expect you to chain yourself to me forever, trapped as I am in this shadow state._

“Don’t say it like that.”  He couldn’t help his voice cracking. 

_What would you have me say?  And what am I to do, just speak to you from afar and let you grow lonely?  We would both be unhappy, then._

He only got as far as drawing a breath to protest when she said, _Corvo, I_ know _you_ , in exasperation and he laughed once instead.  “You do.” 

 _See?  You should listen_.  And there was the tone she’d always take when she won some little argument, and he could imagine her smile, fond and teasing at the same time.  _You have always held your heart out easily.  Do not harden it because of me._

“I do still love you,” he said, and it was true.  Different, with her gone but not, but true all the same. 

 _And I love you._   The Heart beat again, and she said, _Quick, leave—someone is coming._

He hurriedly tucked her away and opened the door, only for one of the Ladies Boyle to plow right into him. 

“ _Ohh_ my,” she slurred, making absolutely no attempts to stop leaning against him.  “What a _deliciously_ sinful mask.  A few more drinks, and I think I’ll find it funny.”  She patted his chest very deliberately, like she was having a hard time aiming, and wandered off. 

Well then. 

It looked like Esma was in black.

* * *

Daud sighed through gritted teeth and sat heavily in the dainty little chair in front of Waverly Boyle’s vanity.  Lydia’s room had been a bust as well, Leonid and Thomas said her journal was full of nothing but handwritten music she’d apparently composed herself, with the occasional wish that she’d meet someone else that appreciated the harpsichord.  Waverly didn’t seem to keep a journal at all, or at least he hadn’t been able to find it. 

He certainly wasn’t rounding all three of them up to ask which one had the bad sense to fall in with Burrows, so he decided to check the room one more time, just in case.  His legs were rather longer than Waverly Boyle’s, though, so as he tried to stand up, he managed to hit the furniture with his knee, hard. 

It made a horrible scraping noise like he’d broken it, and when he looked to see if he had, he found himself nose-to-spine with a little black notebook. 

He frowned.  The shelf above it had tilted like it was made to be moved, so he reached for it and flipped to a random place.  All the entries were dated and written in a meticulously neat hand that marched, ruler-straight, across the page.  He turned to the last entry, from earlier that day. 

_28 th High Cold, 1837_

_Esma’s set aside more than enough spirits for tonight, I shouldn’t wonder.  If she didn’t have a drink in her hand, she’d positively lose her balance.  I’ll be staying sober, though.  Would that I could escape Dunwall entirely, for I have a terrible feeling someone might be after me._

_Or perhaps Hiram’s just rubbing off on me, dreadful though that would be.  He’s grown worse and worse since Lord Attano escaped—he hardly does anything but work, snaps at the staff for having things out of order (though I never can see what’s amiss), counts obsessively.  I fear what might happen to me if I were to do something wrong._

Daud turned to the first page and began to read.

* * *

“Oh there you are, are you feeling better?”  Miss White hadn’t gone far and was in the music room, picking individual notes on the piano. 

“Yes, much,” Corvo said.  “And I’ve discovered Esma is in black.”  He didn’t see any reason to keep that from her, and he’d rather her win the party game than anyone else. 

She gasped.  “How do you know?” 

“She ran into me.  Literally.” 

“ _Oh_ , I understand.  But how exciting!  That means Waverly must be in white, and I do believe we’ve won!” 

“It certainly looks that way.”  Corvo smiled, glad he’d decided to talk to her.  He was already regretting having to leave without a word, but with luck he’d be able to get in touch again once everything was over. 

“I don’t know who to tell, though, but I can—”  Miss White froze as the world went grey and time halted. 

Daud had already done that once, Corvo assumed to knock out an upstairs guard, but again?  Just as he was starting to wonder what could’ve gone wrong and if he could slip away to help, he heard Daud holler—there was no other word for it, _“Corvo, get back up here!”_

“—ask,” Miss White finished, and he was glad she couldn’t see the face he was making for the mask.  Whatever it was must not have been _too_ urgent, Daud hadn’t sounded upset, but all the same, he’d like to see what the fuss was about as quickly as possible.  “You know, I’ll find Lydia, I’m sure she’ll tell me what we ought to do.”  She walked off, presumably in search of her, and Corvo took the opportunity to go back upstairs.  

Daud was in the gallery, holding a small book and looking deadly serious.  Leonid and Thomas were just a few feet away, not so much dancing as holding each other and swaying gently in place. 

“What is it?”  Corvo pulled his mask off and raked one hand through his hair, trying to get it back in order.  Daud’s eyes followed the movement until he seemed to shake himself. 

Oh, Void, Jess had been right. 

It wasn’t that Corvo doubted her, per se, but like the time Daud had damn near picked him to make him go to the infirmary, it was one thing to know and another to see it firsthand. 

“It’s Waverly,” Daud said, waving the book.  “But Burrows is strong-arming her into funding the military, she’d leave him if she weren’t too afraid of what he might do.” 

Corvo sighed, rubbed a hand down his face.  “Of course.” 

“What are you going to do?”

* * *

Daud leaned against the fireplace in the upstairs sitting room and told himself once more that he wouldn’t have another cigarette until he got home.  He was running low as it was. 

He wanted one, though.  Corvo’s plan was just this side of foolish, not that there were many other options, but just like the rest of the evening, there were more ways for it to go wrong than he appreciated. 

He could hear footsteps on the stairs and did his best to look nonthreatening, but Leonid and Thomas standing there in their masks didn’t help matters. 

Waverly walked into the room, closely followed by Corvo, and she gasped, clapping her hands to her mask.  “Daud.”

“It’s alright,” Corvo said, putting a hand on her back, half to reassure her and half to keep her moving forward.  “We’re not here to hurt you.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you,” she snapped.  “Who _are_ you?”  Corvo hesitated, then wordlessly took off his mask, and Waverly stared at him for a few long seconds before sinking into the armchair. 

“I might as well,” she said, and pulled off her own mask to lay her head in her hands.  “You’ve been behind everything that’s happening, haven’t you?  You’re in league with _him?”_  

“Yes.” 

“Then I suppose you’ve come to kill me.” 

“No.” 

“You needn’t lie.” 

“I’m not.  We had to go through your things”—he ignored her disparaging _tsch_ —“and we know about Burrows, and Brisby—”

“He means to kidnap me, carry me off to his family’s estate,” she said hollowly.  “I’ve told Hiram, but he won’t believe me.  No one will.” 

Corvo glanced at Daud, frowning.  She didn’t even sound upset, just exhausted to the point of not being able to care anymore. 

Corvo got the look he always wore when he was having an idea.  “Where is the estate?” 

“Some miserable little island that probably isn’t on any map.”  She flapped a hand dismissively. 

Slowly, he said, “Do you know how to use a knife?” 

She looked at him narrowly.  “What are you saying?” 

Daud wanted to know as well. 

“Between the four of us,” Corvo said, looking right at him, “I’m sure we can find one to give you.  Would you know how to use it?” 

“My father insisted I learn some basic techniques, in case I was set upon by miscreants.  I certainly wouldn’t be helpless.” 

Corvo nodded, brow furrowed.  “You may not like my idea.” 

“Well, as long as it doesn’t involve my untimely death I daresay I won’t have room to complain,” she said, looking more and more animated with every word. 

He let one corner of his mouth tick up in a strange little smile.  “Go with Brisby.  If he does anything you don’t like, do whatever you want with him.  Get out of the city, and stay out until—”

“What, exactly?  You’ve crippled the government very neatly, what is your goal?” 

“Until things are put right,” Corvo said, grim. 

Waverly gave him a long, searching look, then drew herself up and grabbed her mask hat.  “Very well, I’ll do it.  Where is this knife?” 

Leonid pulled a stiletto from one of her pockets.  “Here.  You should be able to keep this hidden pretty easily.” 

“Do you want me to see you off?” Corvo asked. 

“No, there’s no need.  _Dearest Timothy_ still thinks I might come around and love him, he won’t dream of doing anything untoward for a few months, I’m sure.”  Waverly sounded absolutely disgusted but sure of herself, at least.  She sighed.  “I can’t even begin to say how grateful I am, though.  It feels like I haven’t been allowed to make a decision of my own for months.  Thank you, all of you.” 

And with that she stood, put on her hat, and walked from the room with a straight back and purposeful stride. 

Leonid and Thomas slipped out of the room immediately.  Daud turned to tell them absolutely _not_ , they were on a _job_ , but Corvo snagged him by the arm, saying, “Just let them be.” 

“Alright.”  They stood there a few moments, both just staring into the fire.  Daud racked his brain trying for something, _anything_ to say that would let him let Corvo know he’d finally gone and made a decision, but he didn’t know how to even _begin_ to address that.

“This all went smoother than I thought it would,” Corvo said suddenly.

“Mhm,” was all he could muster in response.  It was true, though, there were a million ways everything could’ve gone spectacularly wrong but hadn’t.

“Daud.”  Corvo turned to face him, a strange kind of serious that put him on edge.  “I—” he inhaled deeply, stopped himself, and sighed, frustrated.  “I’ve wanted to—”

He shook his head, took a half step closer, and put calloused, gentle fingers under Daud’s jaw, tilting his chin up just so, and then he kissed him, very softly.

And all Daud could think was that his lips were awfully chapped.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was, and he was so busy thinking _oh_ he didn’t even reciprocate. 

Corvo started pulling away.  “I’m sorry.” 

Daud grabbed at his hand.  “I don’t—mind,” he said, and wanted to kick himself, _viciously_.  Stars above, _I don’t mind_. 

Corvo just ducked his head, smiling, and huffed an odd little laugh.  “Well, as long as you’re not suffering too much.” 

And he kissed him again, thoughtful and unhurried.  Daud tried to match his movements as best he could, but he didn’t really know where to put his hands, exactly, until Corvo eased a little further into his space to wrap his arms around him, and that was nice.  It was even better when Corvo reached up to cradle his face in one hand, fingertips just barely petting through the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

Daud was half-expecting Corvo to decide he’d made a terrible mistake when he made a very faint, pleased sound in the back of his throat and ran his tongue along his lower lip.  Asking, Daud realized, and let him do as he liked.  That pulled another noise from him, louder than the first but still soft and barely voiced, and he pressed even closer, arm sliding around his waist, gripping at his coat.  He leaned away for the span of a breath, rocked back in, and Daud wondered what he might be feeling as he kissed like he thought he would’ve died if he’d had to wait a minute longer. 

Even so, he was—considerate, never left Daud feeling like he’d been set adrift in open water without being told how to swim.  That made his heart twist strangely, and he was suddenly, fiercely glad to _know_ he hadn’t misplaced his trust. 

All that worry, for nothing. 

Corvo finally broke away and lay his head on Daud’s shoulder, so he reached up to stroke his hair, wishing he’d had a chance to take off his gloves.  Even so, he could feel Corvo’s pulse thrumming against his wrist, bird-quick, matching his own. 

“We should probably go,” Corvo whispered, even as he tucked his face a little further into the crook of Daud’s neck. 

“We should.” 

They could talk about it later.

* * *

The shrine was on the top floor of another abandoned apartment building that had probably been very upscale a year ago but now wasn’t home to anything more than rats.  It was a wonder the Overseers hadn’t gone into a frenzy over it, with the whale oil lanterns shining out the empty windows for everyone to see. 

Daud swore when he saw it, then started grumbling under his breath about black-eyed bastards that couldn’t butt out of other people’s business. 

Corvo kissed him again because he wanted to and had to keep from smiling when that surprised him into quietness.  It was probably too early for that, he might take it the wrong way. 

“I’ll get it,” he said, with their foreheads still pressed together, kissed him one more time for good measure, and picked up the rune before Daud had a chance to protest. 

(How were there always runes?)

“Coming from a party, Corvo?”  The Outsider smirked at him.  “Is that what you dreamed of, all those months in Coldridge Prison while waiting for the executioner?  Wealth, women in the latest fashions, laughing and drinking Tyvian wine?” 

Corvo gritted his teeth.  He knew the Outsider knew that wasn’t the case, and wished he wouldn’t remind him, anyway. 

“But we both know you could hardly pull your thoughts away from Daud.  Tell me, how does it feel to—”

He sighed.  “Do you want to say anything important?” 

The Outsider looked shocked that someone would dare interrupt him, but like a cat after almost falling in the bath, he hid it quickly.  “The both of you were far kinder to Lady Boyle than I expected.  I see everything, and the futures where you sent her away as Brisby’s prisoner, or killed her and called it mercy, outnumbered these a hundred to one.  But you seem intent on surprising me.” 

Corvo shrugged.  “She was trapped.” 

“Hm.”  Suddenly the Outsider went grave and leaned into his space.  Cold radiated off of him.  “Hurry home, Corvo.  Emily needs you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clinks Corvo and Daud together* finally, kissing 
> 
> also I'm just going to shamelessly retcon Lady Boyle, so there 
> 
> but again, thanks so much for the comments and kudos guys <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one that gets bloody, just wanted to let you know.

Brother Chadwick was not a nice man. 

He walked around the old Rudshore Financial District with one hand on his music box’s crank because it made him feel important, and nothing made him thrive quite like feeling important.  He deflated a bit every time he finished another lap and no more heretics showed themselves ( _oh_ , he liked the way they crumpled when the music robbed them of their Outsider-given magics) but he reminded himself that meant they were weak at heart, to cowardly to come out and face him.  He shouldn’t expect anything more. 

And it might not be the Siege of Whitecliff, but he was helping cleanse Dunwall itself of an infestation of Daud’s assassins, so he straightened his shoulders and set off on another lap. 

They’d have the Knife himself dead by dawn, he was sure of it. 

However, Brother Chadwick had failed to realize something very important: the Whalers were assassins first, and heretics second, with a whole host of other skills more dangerous than the magic.  They didn’t _need_ it to be deadly just like Montgomery didn’t _need_ a syringe to wave around to make someone to accept the doctoring—it just helped.  But Brother Chadwick had it the wrong way around and thought he was safe, just so long as he had the music. 

That meant he was entirely unprepared when heavy, booted feet dropped down onto him from above, flattening him to the ground before he had a chance to start turning his crank handle.  He didn’t even have time to shout before his throat was slit, and he died with a gurgle, facedown on splintery boards. 

Rulfio kicked him. 

Hard.

* * *

Corvo was a nervous wreck. 

He spent the entire boat trip back to Rudshore bouncing one leg and worrying at his lip, face drawn and shoulders tight.  Daud wanted to tell him that it was the Outsider and he could’ve meant anything, but he had to admit it was unusual for him to be that direct.  If Emily had just had a nightmare, he would’ve beaten around the bush a bit before making his point. 

What were they going to _find?_  

Samuel hadn’t even cut _Amaranth’s_ engine when Billie appeared on the dock, wearing her mask and saluting (she never did that, not anymore, why had she started again, Daud wondered).  She didn’t bother with a greeting, only glanced about slightly to check that everyone was looking at her.

“Daud, we’ve been attacked.” 

Oh, Void. 

Everyone else in the boat had the good sense to stay quiet, and he forced himself to speak past the sudden blank white noise of more questions than he had time for and his own throat, trying to lock up around the words.  “Who?” 

“Overseers.  They’re tearing the place apart, looking for you.” 

Him.  Not Corvo.  Not _Emily_.  Good.  A small mercy. 

“They’ve captured some of us and their leader is in your chambers as we speak.”  He ground his teeth.  It was far from the worst of his problems, but his damned _bedroom,_ of all places.  They probably thought they were making some kind of statement.  “If we take him out and free our men, we can still drive them back.” 

“I want to know how the bastards found us in the first place.”  They’d been _careful_ , he could’ve filled a journal with everything they did to keep hidden.    

“Sir.”  Saluting again, Billie left them.  (She’d said she had business, couldn’t go to the party, was it already done?  She’d talked like it would take all night, though she wouldn’t say what it was.) 

“Leonid, Thomas.”  Daud could feel his hands starting to shake with yet-unused adrenaline and wanted _so_ badly to take off immediately to show the Overseers exactly what a mistake they’d made, but he had orders to give.  “Go.  Do whatever you have to.  Samuel, find someplace safe and stay there.  I’ll send someone to find you.” 

Thomas nodded and transversed away, hand in hand with Leonid, and Samuel said _yes, sir_ , turning the boat back the way he’d come. 

Once they were alone, Corvo said, his voice low and ragged and strange, _“Daud.”_  

He turned to find him standing there on the dock, shoulders drawn up like a bird sheltering under his own wings, eyes wide and looking about as terrified as Daud felt, no doubt remembering what the Outsider said.  _Emily needs you_.  And now they’d been attacked, and he didn’t know about the safety protocols _(why_ hadn’t he told him about those?  Stupid, _stupid—),_ and the last thing he’d heard about his daughter was that she needed him nearly an hour earlier. 

Daud knew how much could happen in an hour. 

So he stepped closer to him and held his face in one hand.  “Breathe,” he said, and waited for his shoulders to rise and fall before continuing, watching as his eyes slipped shut and he leaned into the contact.  “We’re going to find her.  She should still be with Montgomery?” 

That wasn’t so much a question as a statement, but he knew how much affirming things did for some people. 

Corvo nodded.  Daud could feel the muscle work as he clenched his jaw. 

“She’s just as good as any of the rest of us, the Overseers would have to get through her and Wyman both before getting to her.”  He _hated_ talking about Wyman like that—he was _thirteen_ , he shouldn’t even have the arcane bond yet, but he’d be just as motivated as everyone else to keep her safe—perhaps more, as close as they were.  “And the pair of them can bend time, she was in the safest place she could’ve been.”

Another nod. 

“And if any of them recognized her, they’d want to turn her in for the reward, they wouldn’t dare hurt her.”  That felt like a big if, considering he was talking about Overseers, but it would probably make Corvo feel better to hear it.  “Do you want to split up to cover more ground?” 

Corvo nodded again, wrapped him in a tight hug, and kissed him once, quickly (apparently that was something Daud was just going to have to get used to, not that he was complaining).  “Be safe.” 

“I will.”

* * *

“Hey, wake up,” Fisher whispered, gently shaking the girl’s shoulder.  “You need to get up, come on.” 

“Mm, what is it?”  She sat up, rubbing her eye. 

“Put your coat on.”  Fisher pressed it into her hand.  “We need to leave.” 

“Why?”  She was starting to sound scared, and Fisher dithered.  There was a reason she wasn’t usually in charge of the kids. 

“It’s an emergency.  You have to go somewhere safe, but you need to stay as calm as you can, okay?  You remember what Daud told you about that?”  The girl nodded, hugging herself, hanging onto her blanket tightly.  “Good.  Here’s your shoes.” 

Akila was moving down the row of beds, getting the other girls moving, and Kieron and Tynan were taking care of the boys.  There were close to twenty novices (not counting the older ones, they wouldn’t need nearly so much watching, and someone else was getting them anyway), so all the adults would be responsible for three or four kids apiece, Fisher thought.  And none of them had the arcane bond. 

The Overseers shouldn’t be anywhere near them though.  With a little luck, they’d be alright. 

Once everyone was awake, Fisher and Akila herded everyone out the door to meet up with the other group.  It wasn’t a long walk to the closest saferoom, just enough to be completely nerve-wracking with a gaggle of sleepy, frightened children.  They really should’ve woken them up in the middle of the night to do safety drills sometime, Fisher thought, only ever doing that on clear afternoons with plenty of warning didn’t do them as much good as it could’ve. 

To get to the saferoom itself, someone would have to transverse onto the balcony of one building, then again to another, which was higher so that no one without magic would have a hope of getting to it.  Akila went first, holding one novice by the hand, then Keiron took another.  Tynan went as soon as one of the kids finished climbing onto his back, and they rotated on that way while Fisher stood guard a little way down the path. 

She wasn’t good with kids. 

There were only—she turned her head to check—six left when the sheet metal under her boots started to quiver slightly. 

Four still standing there when she used her void gaze to see three Overseers striding toward them. 

Two, and she saw one of the had a music box strapped to his chest. 

She’d heard about the things from Leonid and her heart started to pound as she drew her knife, pulling magic toward her Mark, getting ready. 

Akila tapped her on the shoulder, signaling she was about to leave, and Fisher nodded in return.  She’d stand there a moment more, give them time to get inside, and then she’d go, and they’d have made it.  They couldn’t risk a direct fight, not with the kids around. 

She’d give them one if they asked for it, though.

The Overseers rounded the corner. 

 _Fuck._ Akila was probably still on the first balcony, in easy view.

They might not be able to afford a _fight_ , but she could make a distraction long enough to keep everyone safe.  She transversed behind the last member of the group, wound an arm around his throat, and ran him through _(no more killing_ , Daud had said, but Fisher thought he would probably make an exception).  The Overseer hollered before he fell over and died, and Fisher moved to a streetlight only a few feet above everyone’s heads, but not before the others saw her. 

She turned, leapt, transversed again, thinking to move to higher ground and disappear, and something bizarre happened. 

She stalled out of her transversal. 

 _Shit,_ she thought as she began to fall. 

And then everything was darkness.

* * *

Corvo crept over the haphazard plank footpath down Agrosh Way, toward the Flooded District itself, heart in his throat.  Daud was already gone, said he was going to take a shortcut through the sewers that would put him out under the Chamber of Commerce. 

And that was fine, Daud was more than capable of taking care of himself. 

Corvo just wanted to find Emily. 

He blinked up onto the bridge that lead up to the rail station and then had to quickly move again onto the roof of—well, he didn’t know what the building used to be, but it served as the corridor to the Rudshore waterfront.  Three Overseers stood inside, talking. 

“No, Brother,” said one.  “The heretics might yet return, you mustn’t waste what few you have left.” 

“The _heretics_ are beaten.  Those that remain will be routed and destroyed, and those river krusts should be as well.” 

“I agree with Leopold,” said the third. 

“Thank you, Brother.”  Leopold drew a grenade from the bandolier on his chest and hurled it downward.  After a couple of seconds, it exploded, and Corvo heard two loud splashes.  Leopold leaned over to look and said, “There.  Nothing is coming, and now we shan’t be harassed by those creatures.” 

The first crossed his arms, saying, “And now what will you do if Daud passes by?  Brother Hume expects him to return at any moment.” 

Corvo frowned.  It figured Hume wasn’t someone he’d knew anything about.  

“If the assassin comes near, I trust _we_ will be able to overwhelm him,” Leopold replied pointedly.  “He’s almost certainly a coward and unused to fighting in the open.” 

Corvo gritted his teeth.  He’d heard enough.  Fighting the three Overseers in close quarters would take more time and energy than he wanted to spend, so he used the quickest option for getting rid them he had. 

The rats overwhelmed them in an instant, and they went down screaming, trying and failing to fend them off. 

The group patrolling courtyard were much easier to deal with, more spread out, and they kept turning their backs to each other.  (Corvo realized with a lurch that the kids had all played there just the other day, and there was a corpse laying where Daud had stood when Leonid hit him with the snowball.)  None of them knew any of his fellows were gone until the last one turned and shouted _by the Void!_ but Corvo soon silenced him and let himself into the rail station. 

There was another pair of Overseers standing on the bridge that lead to the Chamber of Commerce.  Corvo crouched, huddled behind the wall, and thought.  There wasn’t _any_ cover nearby, so if he went past, someone was going to know about it.  He didn’t have the patience to sit and wait until they left (if they left) or go around and take another way, but he didn’t want to cause a commotion either. 

Why’d they have to stand _there,_ of all places? 

A rat sniffed at his boot and he came very close to shooing it away before he had the strangest idea.  He made a shape with his hand, his Mark lit up brilliant gold, and then he _was_ the rat from stem to stern, whiskers and tiny clawed hands, hind legs in a very different configuration than he was used to, with a long tail trailing through the dirt and wasn’t _that_ a strange and novel sensation. 

He also immediately felt _sick_.  His nose was clogged and running, his joints ached, he felt nearly frozen with fever, and he could sense the rat’s mind sloshing around deliriously, trying to figure out what was going on.  The rat—a she, realized—had the plague.  Before he could start worrying about whether that was contagious by Void magic, too, he started to run. 

His tiny rat heart pounded furiously in his tiny rat chest (borrowed heart, borrowed chest, the rat was trying to kick him out like he was a flea stuck on a place she couldn’t quite scratch) as he scurried past the Overseer’s boots and onward.  There was an apartment nearby, some of the Whalers liked to meet in it to smoke and talk, and he thought he’d be able to make it there if he would just hurry.  There was another Overseer on the way that lurched back, looking like a tower about to fall, and tried to flatten Corvo but he leapt out of the way, scrabbling over sheet metal, and dove through the empty window frame into the apartment. 

He landed hard, himself again, and flailed his way over to a corner where he closed his eyes, breathing hard.  When he looked, he found the poor rat a few feet away, dead, a sad little shape on the carpet. 

Corvo swallowed and let his head tip back against the wall.  He didn’t _feel_ sick.  He felt fine.  His hand tingled and burned a bit from the Mark, but that was barely worth noticing.  He scrubbed a hand down his face. 

Just another minute, and he’d be on his way.

* * *

Daud climbed the chain that led from the sewers to the upper floors of the Chamber of Commerce, hoping the sound of the links clicking against each other could pass for being made by a draft. 

“Brother Hume took the initiative.” 

“You mean he saw a chance for personal glory and acted prematurely.” 

Daud dangled just out of sight and listened.  He’d not heard of Hume, but Overseers kept to themselves and it was rare for someone to order a hit on one them; it carried too much chance of being found out and taken to Holger Square for _questioning_.

“Careful, you’ll bring us both down.” 

“You worry too much.  Half an hour more, and we could have begun the storm with the heretics none the wiser.  But Hume—” 

 _“Silence.”_   There was a sound like a hand grabbing a lapel, and the Overseer said, much quieter, “Yes, you’re right.  Hume is a pompous fool and we all know it, but not.  _Another._   _Word_ until we’ve returned to the Square, understood?” 

“Yes, Brother,” the other one said, chastised. 

“Good.  I’m going to see what the others are making of the captive.” 

Daud heard footsteps walking away from him and took his chance.  The second Overseer was still standing there in the doorway.  Daud crept up on him, threw one arm around his neck, and sent a bolt into the base of his skull, hiding the body behind one crumbling wall before he had a chance to bleed too much. 

The other one was still walking down the hall, and Daud hurled a can of chokedust at his feet, transversing up behind him to drive his knife into his shoulder.  There was a third off to his right in the cubicles, Daud dispatched him with another bolt to the neck. 

All the motions came back to him so easily, _too_ easily, Void, he’d sworn to himself he’d never do anything like this again, long months ago when he couldn’t get the memory of Emily staring up at him, terrified, out of his head. 

So much for that.  There was blood running down his forearm, dripping off the tip of his knife.  But his Whalers were more important than some promise that hadn’t done very much to help him sleep at night, and they were all in danger until the Overseers were dealt with, one way or another. 

And if killing made them safe again, so be it. 

Billie appeared at his side.  “There’s three more up ahead.  They’ve got one of the kids.  Want me to lure them out?” 

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.  One of the _kids_ , none of them deserved that.  He crouched behind a desk, out of sight, and a moment or two later he heard shouting.  Two Overseers came barreling through the door, there and then past him too quickly to take a shot so he vaulted over the desk and promptly had to throw out his hands to keep from falling flat on his face because one of them had a damn _music box—_

Billie was already close enough to the other one to stab him, but her aim was off on account of the horrid noise that was making Daud’s vision swim and distort— _how did it even_ do _that_ , he thought—and it took her a couple of tries to get him to go down.  Daud just hurled himself at the one with the box, hoping to force him to quit long enough to silence him permanently, and it worked, in a way.  The Overseer started thrashing, trying to buck Daud off, but he just hooked his fingers in the eyeholes of the mask to drag his head back and open his throat. 

Another set of footsteps came closer and Daud scrambled to his feet, ready to take out the last one, and found Billie already halfway there, but the Overseer had a pistol and was taking aim and he didn’t have time to think so he grabbed Billie’s arcane bond and _yanked_ , hard, jerking her through the Void and tossing her out behind him, heart in his throat, and he heard the crack and saw the muzzle flash and—

Oh. 

He felt the bullet slam into his shoulder and lodge somewhere inside and went to his knees with the sudden shocking pain of it.  He’d been shot before, sure, but it wasn’t something that got better with experience.  He lifted a hand to it and his fingers came away very wet, shining black in the moonlight with the same blood that was running warm down his chest.  He hissed through his teeth. 

Oh, Void, that wasn’t good. 

 _“Why did you do that?”_ Billie snarled, stalking around to stand in front of him. 

“What else was I supposed to do, let you be _killed?”_   Maybe it wasn’t fair to snap at her, but what kind of question _was_ that? 

“I had it handled!” she snapped, all piss and vinegar. 

Daud got to his feet, grimacing.  “And I had to keep you _safe_.”  He had to make sure they were all safe, make sure no one was—Void, he didn’t even want to think about it. 

And he wasn’t the tallest among the Whalers by any stretch of the imagination, but he still stood half a head above Billie, and when he straightened up fully that seemed to have an effect on her for the first time in years, what had gotten _into_ her?

She took half a step back, her knife’s slight wobble the only indication that she had very strong feelings about being protected, she just wasn’t going to share them.  Then she inhaled deeply and closed everything away.  Her voice very flat, she said, “You going to be alright?” 

Daud just grunted an assent, probing at the injury again.  “Find anyone you can, tell them to meet up outside my office.”  Getting rid of Hume ought to be the next step, then they could take care of the all the remaining Overseers and make sure everyone was accounted for. 

Billie didn’t even say anything, she just left. 

Daud stared at the space she’d just been in, baffled.  In the morning, if she said everything was fine again, he was going to say he knew she was lying make sure she gave him the truth. 

But first he’d get whoever was tied up in the next room.

* * *

Arden and Quinn fought side by side, trying to fend off a whole boat of reinforcements down at the old refinery.  The ones with music boxes were already dead, killed as soon as they were spotted and buried under the pile of their compatriots. 

Daud kept them from sparring against one another as much as he could—they knew each other far too well—but working together, they were glorious, each one slipping into the gaps left by the other seamlessly, the drills they’d learned over the years coming together into a near-perfect defense.  The Overseers didn’t stand a chance. 

But one of them must’ve had enough because Arden and Quinn heard one of them bellow _stand clear!_ from somewhere at the back of the group as something whizzed over their heads and the Overseers started climbing all over each other, trying to get out of the way. 

Quinn realized what it was just as Arden bent down to pick it up, and reached for him desperately, howling, _“Arden, you dumb fuck—”_

But she was too late.  Arden threw the grenade and it exploded in midair somewhere between him and the Overseers as Quinn grabbed great handfuls of his jacket. 

And for an instant, just barely an instant, everything hurt.

* * *

Corvo popped back into his own shape (he was getting better at that, he thought proudly) and peered around a corner. 

No one.  Good. 

He went to shake his hand again because it was getting cold—all of him was starting to feel drained, he needed to slow down but couldn’t stand to, he’d not found Emily anywhere—and felt a small, cool nose nudge one of his fingers. 

It was the rat he’d just possessed, still very alive and seeming no worse for wear, unlike the other one.  He was a glossy dark brown thing with a thin white stripe running down his face and Corvo stared at him in amazement before scooping him up to get a closer look.  The rat didn’t squirm or try to bite him but actually seemed to _like_ it and nudged against him again, asking to be petted. 

He’d belonged to someone, then, Corvo decided as he scratched the rat’s shoulders.  And he was healthy, and very endearing with the contented little expression he was wearing, so Corvo petted him a few moments longer and tucked him carefully into an inside pocket. 

“Here you go, friend,” he whispered.  “Stay there, that’s good.” 

The rat curled up and blinked at him, looking like he’d found warm, cozy paradise. 

“Corvo,” Leonid murmured, right in his ear, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.  “I just saw Billie, she says Daud wants us to meet him outside his office.” 

“Alright.”  He buttoned the pocket closed, it would be awful to jostle the poor rat right out.  “Have you seen Emily?” 

“No, but I’m sure she’s in the infirmary, I saw someone going in there earlier.  Don’t worry, Montgomery would keep her safe.” 

He nodded, trying not to let too much show on his face.  “Let’s go.”

* * *

Daud didn’t feel very well. 

He’d gotten a headache, of all things, and wanted nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep, but he wasn’t sure he could even if he tried for how loud and fast his pulse rushed in his ears.  All the same, he eased down the stairs to the armory, mindful of the ones that always creaked, though he had to grab the railing and wait out a strange surge of lightheadedness.

As far as he could tell, the Overseers had only managed to catch a few people, and between him and a few others that had come and gone before him, they’d set everyone loose again.  But before he went to his office to deal with Hume, he wanted to see what had been done to the bonecharms. 

It wasn’t _that_ important, he knew, but it had taken him years to put together the collection, stealing some and commissioning others when he found someone he could trust to carve one properly, without corrupting it.  He’d only made that mistake once and was missing three molars because of it. 

The bonecharms were at least still in the room, but they’d been moved into labeled boxes, ready to be taken back to the Abbey and destroyed, but that was fine.  They’d not been taken, that was the important part.  Though there was something laying on the table in the middle of the room that interested him. 

He drew closer to look at—a map, with arrows and circles and little boats drawn all over it.  An attack plan.  The Overseers had come in by way of the river, down Agrosh way and from the waterfront to launch a two-pronged attack on Rudshore, centered on the Chamber of Commerce like they thought they’d be able pin Daud in like a rat in a trap. 

He moved the map aside to check if there was anything interesting under it and found something scribbled along one edge. 

_Make attack 28 of Ice._

He frowned.  _Make attack_.  That made it sound almost like—

He’d not been nearly angry enough. 

He turned on his heel and made for his office, grinding his teeth.  They’d planned it.  The bastards had _known_ he would be at the Boyle party and scheduled their attack for a time he’d be gone, so he’d get to come back home to find it destroyed.  And the only people who knew he where he would be were his own. 

Someone had betrayed him. 

But _why?_   No one had been captured, not in years, and he thought that if anyone were harassed, they’d tell him about it.  Unless someone had accidentally let it slip to one of their outside contacts, then that was a completely different problem. 

He’d deal with Hume, let Montgomery put him back together, and then in the morning, he’d get to the bottom of whatever the fuck had happened. 

And he did need to let Montgomery do something, he could feel blood all the way down his front and the bullet burning, burning.  His heart felt like it would beat its way right out of his chest.  His hands were freezing. 

Soon. 

Hume first. 

He had to stop and take a rest on the way though, he kept walking in zigzags, dizzy. 

Montgomery was going to kill him. 

But Hume, _Hume_ had to come first, and then she could kill him all she liked because they’d all be safe once he was done for.  And then he could go to _sleep_.  Void, he wanted to sleep.  He shivered.  Yes, that would be nice, he could wrap up in his wool blanket and be warm and sleep until noon. 

And then he would—he’d—he’d remember later, that was what. 

He’d get a bath first though, he was disgusting, sticky with blood. 

He pushed off the wall and kept on toward the office.  _Hume_ , he told himself sternly. 

Only a few others were waiting in the hall—there was Rulfio and Billie and Leonid and Thomas and Corvo—he looked awful but tried a weak little smile when he saw Daud, but it just turned to a _very_ odd look just a moment later.  Worried. 

Daud leaned on the bookshelf to hide the way he felt like he was listing off to the left because the others shouldn’t worry about him, not when they all looked like _that_ , exhausted. 

“Go,” he rasped.  “I’ll get Hume.” 

They all stormed through into his office at once, everyone else splitting off, starting an all-out brawl around him as he walked straight toward the one responsible for all the mess and the bullet in his shoulder and taking the kids as prisoners. 

He looked terrified. 

Daud smiled, nasty, as he backed himself into a corner trying to get away, and took his knife, and ran him through.  Hume choked and groaned and died and Daud let him fall to the floor, backing away, breathing hard. 

He did not feel well.  

He could hear the others talking around him and tried to think, to _focus_ , but he couldn’t, his thoughts fading before he could get a firm grasp of them.  He frowned.  He felt all clammy and that didn’t help, and neither did everyone else _shouting_ , if they’d just quiet down a bit he might be able to remember what he’d been about to do. 

He was so cold. 

Then the floor bucked violently beneath him and he startled, flinging a hand out toward his desk, trying to steady himself and then the boards were much closer to his face than they had been a moment before, and if everyone would just quiet down and let him _think_ —

His hand slipped off the desk and he sprawled out in the floor, insensible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoyed it though, and thank you guys so, so much for everything you said about the last chapter <3<3<3


	19. Chapter 19

Corvo saw Daud fall and blinked to him, dropping to his knees to get him rolled right way up.  Outsider’s eyes, he’d thought he was acting strange, he should’ve slowed down, asked what the matter was, but he hadn’t and now Daud was laying there boneless, terribly pale even in the moonlight, his lips starting to go dusky. 

Void, he looked—no.  He couldn’t be.  He _couldn’t_. 

Corvo pressed fingers to his neck, and—yes.  He was alive, he had a pulse, even if it was thready and much too fast.  He was breathing, shallow and labored—Corvo yanked off his mask to bend down and listen—but it wasn’t whistling or making any other noise it shouldn’t.  Good. 

Leonid joined him at Daud’s other side with a sob, hands hovering over him, wanting to help and not knowing how.  “What’s wrong with him!?”

“I don’t know.”  Everyone in the room was yelling at everyone else, overwrought, and they were making it _very_ difficult to concentrate.  He could barely see, Daud was filthy, but there, there—high on his shoulder, up by his collarbone, was a hole in his coat.  “He’s been shot.”

“Monty,” Leonid stammered, like just saying her name would get her to appear.  She didn’t, so he was going to need help carrying him to the infirmary—he didn’t want to drop him somewhere along the way, Thomas or Rulfio—

“Dear, dear,” a new voice purred.  “Look how the mighty fall.” 

Leonid turned on her heels with a growl, unsheathing her blade as everyone else did.  Corvo pulled Daud a little closer, smoothing one hand over his hair, looking around her to try and see what was happening. 

There was a woman somehow balanced on the top edge of one of the walls, starkly silhouetted against the night sky.  She was tall and slim, looking at her fingernails like she was bored.  “Daud should have forgotten my name while he still could.” 

So, she thought he was dead.  Corvo wasn’t going to tell her otherwise. 

“Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?” Rulfio barked. 

“Now, Billie, aren’t you going to introduce us?  Or have you turned _coward?”_  

Everyone turned on her then, and she slowly backed away, glancing between all of them. 

“Billie, what have you done?”  Thomas’s voice was very level, but there wasn’t any mistaking the threatening undercurrent. 

“If you led them here—”

“I _had_ to! Daud was _weak_ , he was going to get all of us _killed!”_ She pulled off her mask and dropped it, chest heaving.  “The bodyguard’s going to hand us all over—”

“All you had to do was _cut his throat_ ,” the woman snarled. 

“Daud deserved better!” Billie shouted, and looked mortified.  “I couldn’t do it.” 

Corvo stayed hunched protectively over Daud, heart pounding, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of the room unseen, but he _needed_ to get to the infirmary.  He had one foot in the grave already. 

“Is that so?” the woman asked coldly. 

“Does it even _matter?_   He’s dead anyway, and it’s still my fault.”  Billie’s voice cracked. 

“Yes, it does.  Unless you’ve forgotten, we had a bargain, and _you_ failed to uphold your end.  Goodbye.  Good luck with your friends,” she said, and Corvo gritted his teeth at her tone.  She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward.  “And if I see any of you again, I’ll tear out your hearts and _walk in your skin.”_  

Then she disappeared—she _blinked_ —and it clicked. 

Oh, Void.  That had to be Delilah. 

With her gone, everyone started yelling again—but this time just at Billie, who kept insisting that she had to, she had to, until Rulfio just blinked up behind her and stuck a sleep dart into her neck.  He caught her before she fell and picked her up—lucky for her, Corvo wasn’t feeling quite that charitable. 

“Thomas,” he called, draping Daud’s arm across his shoulders, and thankfully he understood, hurrying to join him, and together they heaved Daud up off the floor. 

“Fuck, he’s heavy,” Thomas grunted, and Corvo was inclined to agree, but they managed somehow and set off for the infirmary, Leonid following close behind. 

He just had to hang on a few more minutes. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quiet(er) times at Rudshore.

Later in the morning, Corvo sat in the infirmary with his rat in his lap, feeding him a cracker for breakfast.  Beyond that, he couldn’t bring himself to do much more than stare dead-eyed at a patch of sunlight on the wall because he’d been awake for more than a full day.  A few moments later, the rat (he’d need a name soon, but Emily would want to help with that) started fussing, licking his fingers and nosing at his pockets. 

“Alright, alright,” Corvo murmured, getting him another cracker.  “You glutton.” 

“Hold _still_ , Arden,” Sokolov admonished.

“But it _hurts_ ,” he said plaintively.  Corvo glanced his way and saw him flinching away from the cloth Sokolov was trying to dab at his face with.  He and Quinn had packed themselves into the same bed, holding hands tightly, and were patchworked with bandages.  Corvo had been able to gather they’d both been caught in a grenade blast and came away from it peppered with shrapnel.  They’d been lucky, though; distance and their coats had protected them from the worst of it. 

“I know, but I _must_ clean this.  You’ll feel much better when I’m done.” 

“Am I going to get a scar?” 

“Almost certainly.  Ah.”  Sokolov reached for the tweezers.  “I’ve just found what hurts so.  You have a sliver of metal caught under the skin.” 

Arden made a dramatic retching sound like that was the most horrible combination of words he’d ever heard, then poked Quinn with his elbow.  “I’m going to get a cool eyebrow scar.” 

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” she slurred, woozy from whatever Sokolov had given her for pain.  “I love you.” 

“Love you too,” he said, and it sounded like he meant it. 

“Remember, don’t fall asleep, Miss Fisher,” Sokolov said, setting to work on stitching up Arden’s eyebrow. 

“Won’t,” she grunted from her own bed, where she sat clinging to a bucket, wisps of hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.  “Can’t.”  As if to illustrate why, she dry-heaved into it and groaned. 

Corvo sighed and settled a little deeper into his chair, closing his eyes.  He almost could’ve fallen asleep—the infirmary was warm and his little corner of it smelled nice from the candle burning nearby—but he wouldn’t, not until he knew what kind of shape Daud was in.  He felt the rat curl up, resting his head on his hand, and smiled, just a little.  He was such an affectionate little creature. 

He supposed he must’ve started dozing at some point, because the next thing he knew, Montgomery was trying to rouse him.  “Corvo, dearest.  Corvo, up, Daud’s out of surgery.”

That was about as effective at waking him as tossing a bucket of freezing water on him.  “How is he?” 

“He’ll be fine.  He lost a truly frightening amount of blood, but barring catastrophe, he should make a full recovery.  It was a close thing, though.”  She sighed heavily.  “I am going to keep him sedated for a day or so, just to keep him from hurting himself by _being_ himself, but you can go see him if you like, once you’re cleaned up.”

Corvo nodded and decided not to comment on how deeply shaken she looked.  “Where’s Emily?” 

“In my front room, asleep.  I gave her a half dose of sedative, just enough to coax her into getting some rest.  Normally I wouldn’t have without your permission, but—”

“It’s fine.”  Montgomery was a doctor—and a good one—through and through, if she thought Emily needed it, he trusted her judgement. 

“I’m glad.  And I’ve put Daud in my bedroom for now, I’m sure he’ll appreciate the privacy.”  She laughed, once.  “I’ll use the couch, see if he’s been right to complain about it all these years.  But go, have a bath.  You’ll feel better.  Would you like me to watch your friend?” 

“Yes, please.”  Corvo handed him over and Montgomery held him up at eye level in cupped hands.  As he slipped out the door, he heard her say, “You are a sweet little thing, aren’t you?” 

He crossed paths with Leonid in the stairwell on his way to the apartment.  She looked like she’d been crying and needed sleep, but she waylaid him and said, “Give me your jacket, I’ll see if I can get the blood out.  I’ll bring you another one.” 

He shrugged it off and passed it to her.  “You should get some rest.” 

“I will, but Thomas is helping Kieron with something, and I want to wait for him and—” she sniffed, her eyes welling.  “Just feel like I ought to be doing something.”  He nodded.  He knew how that felt.  “I’ll—I’ll go get your jacket.” 

 _She stood at the sink for almost an hour_ , the Heart murmured, _trying to wash away the feeling of blood on her hands.  She has scrubbed herself nearly raw._

Corvo winced inwardly, remembering Leonid had only ever killed one person up until then, and hated it.  He’d need to remember to talk to her, or maybe ask Montgomery to do it, she’d know her better.  That could wait long enough for him to have a bath, though.  Somehow, he’d gotten blood in his _hair_ and it had dried tight and itchy against his scalp. 

He kept on up the stairs and when he got to his apartment, set the bathtub tap running and dropped all his clothes in a pile in the middle of the bedroom floor.  He sank into the bath with a groan and set to washing himself mechanically until he heard a few soft taps at the door and Leonid’s voice say, “This’ll be on the couch, alright?” 

He said something in reply—he wasn’t even sure what once he was done saying it—and kept soaping his hair.  When he was done, he just pulled on his shirt and pants (he wasn’t even going to try to do anything with the waistcoat and all its buttons) and left the bathroom to find Leonid still sitting in the living room. 

“Here.”  She stood up and held it out.  “I talked to Montgomery on the way, we both think you should have this for now.”  And Corvo could just stare because it was one of _Daud’s_ coats, he recognized it, and even if he hadn’t, the faint smell of cigarette smoke gave it away.  “Usually Billie takes over while Daud’s hurt, but…” she trailed off.  “We think he’d want you to, under the circumstances.  He trusts you.” 

“I—” Corvo’s poor tired mind was having a hard time coming up with concrete reasons for or against being the de facto leader of the Whalers, but he didn’t _feel_ remotely qualified.  What even _were_ the requirements for leading a group of former assassins?  “Shouldn’t Thomas take over?”

“He’d refuse, and so would I,” she said, crushing Corvo’s other hope.  “But either of us would be your second, if you wanted.” 

Corvo sighed and put the coat on.  It was a bit big in the shoulders.  He’d think about everything later, though, once he’d had some rest.  For the moment, he just wanted to see Emily and Daud.  “Alright.”

Leonid tried a smile, but he could tell her heart wasn’t really in it.  “That suits you.”

He wasn’t sure how it could look anything but awkward, but he wasn’t going to argue.  He didn’t have the brainpower.

* * *

Emily, Dodge, and Wyman were all fast asleep in a row, nested up in blankets in Montgomery’s living room floor.  Emily was curled between the other two with Beatrix loosely grasped in one hand, her hair mussed, looking cozy and comfortable.  Corvo just stood and watched her for a minute, trying to breathe down his emotions because he didn’t have words for the relief that she was well and whole and _safe_ with her friends.  He wanted to brush her hair back because it was falling across her face, but he didn’t want to disturb Dodge and left her be. 

Montgomery had already pulled up a chair next to Daud’s bedside, and Corvo eased into it, trying to be quiet (not that it really made any difference, Daud was probably drugged enough to sleep through the building burning down around his ears, but it was the principle of the thing). 

Daud was clean, his shoulder bandaged, arm wrapped to his side so he couldn’t shift it around.  Attached to his arm was an apparatus that didn’t look like anything more than a rubber bag hanging from a picture nail, which had a thin tube running out the bottom that ended in a needle stuck in the meat of his bicep.  Corvo had no earthly idea what it might be, but he assumed it was important and didn’t touch it.  Daud’s hair had been washed as well and hung soft around his face.  He was still pale, but he didn’t have quite the same deathly pallor he’d had the night before, and Corvo wasn’t sure if that was a sign of improvement or just a trick of the candlelight.  His breathing _was_ better though, slow and deep, and Corvo watched the steady rise and fall of his chest until he caught himself nodding off. 

He’d never seen Daud without gloves before.  Hadn’t seen him without a shirt before either, and it just figured that the first time that happened, he’d be unconscious and hurt.  It was strange, in a way, to see the Mark standing out sharp on the back of his left hand just as it was on Corvo’s.  He reached out to touch, rub his thumb over his knuckles, and Daud stirred just slightly, tipping his face into the pillow. 

Corvo sighed.  He’d planned on talking to Daud about what he wanted, what was alright, because he’d not kissed with any kind of confidence (enough enthusiasm, though), and Corvo wanted to know why—if maybe he was just shy or nervous or what.  But then everything went to _shit_ and there he was, bled nearly dry and in no shape to be having a conversation. 

He wasn’t looking forward to telling Daud what had happened, that his own second in command had sold them out to the Overseers and a witch.  That was a problem for later, and Corvo resolutely pushed back the thought that said he was starting to have a great many of those.  He wouldn’t be able to think clearly about anything until he’d had some sleep. 

He didn’t want to leave Daud, though.  It was ridiculous, he wouldn’t have any idea there was even another person in the room, but he’d looked _dead_ just a few hours ago, and the memory of that was enough to make Corvo squeeze his hand a little tighter to remind himself that he was warm, and alive, and would be fine.  Sore and in a foul mood, probably, but fine. 

Corvo took off the coat, let it drape over the back of the chair, and leaned forward onto the edge of the bed, his face pressing into the woolen blanket.  He closed his eyes, telling himself he’d just rest there a few minutes and then go get properly in bed.

* * *

Daud wasn’t exactly awake, but not truly asleep either when he noticed a weight at his side, and something heavy draped across his waist.  He slithered a little further under the covers—he was _freezing_ —and reached out, touching…that was hair, long and soft.  He slid his fingers into it and made a vague, uncoordinated attempt at petting because it felt nice against his fingers.  And with that little bit of energy spent, feeling thoroughly safe and mostly comfortable, he slipped back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Montgomery left the infirmary and let herself into her little apartment, sighing and rubbing her eyes.  She’d just check on Daud—and Corvo too, he’d not come out of the room yet and it had been quite a while—one more time, and then she’d get some rest and find out if the couch was really as dreadful as she’d always heard, keeping a regular sleep cycle be damned. 

She pushed open her bedroom door and drew up short, hand over her mouth, because Corvo was asleep and half draped over Daud, hugging him, and Daud’s hand was tangled in his hair. 

They must’ve sorted things out, then. 

Montgomery had ultimately wanted whatever would make Daud happiest, of course—he was her best friend and she loved him dearly—but she would’ve been lying if she said she hadn’t been hoping for something romantic to come of all his and Corvo’s recent angst. 

And she couldn’t help it, the longer she stood in the door, the more she just wanted to cry because she was _tired_ , and she’d thought she lost Daud, and she actually _had_ lost a few people, and then she’d had to clean up the wounded while they told her it hurt and sounded horribly young, and then there Corvo and Daud were, looking so comfortable with each other, and Montgomery had been alive long enough to know that no amount of passion could hold a candle to that. 

Not that Daud had ever seemed inclined toward passion of any sort, but still.  Her point stood.

So, she stood there in the doorway and sniffed a bit, wiping at her eyes, until she felt like she had a handle on herself and could check Daud’s bandages without dripping on him.  It all looked fine, but of course it did, he was tough as an old boot.  She gave him another dose of painkiller anyway, because the last one would surely be wearing off and she didn’t want him to wake up until he’d had a good, long chance to do some healing. 

She would try to find something for Corvo to wrap up in too, he might be cold.

* * *

Corvo woke up wondering where he was, what day it was, and with a painful kink in his neck, looking confusedly at the little crocheted…was it a baby blanket? draped over his back.  It took a few moments to work out that Montgomery must’ve put it there.  There was a clock on the bedside table, and he glanced at it and discovered it was _half past five_ , no wonder he felt so strange.  He’d slept almost the whole day away. 

Daud was, of course, still deeply unconscious, so Corvo sat up, kissed his forehead, and when his stomach growled ferociously, decided to go look for some food.  He staggered out of the room feeling like someone from a story who’d wandered into the fairy world, curled up in a hollow tree for a nap, and came back to find centuries had passed. 

He had a headache.  The light hurt. 

Emily, Dodge, and Wyman were gone, but all the blankets were still piled in the floor, so it must not have been very long since they left.  No one in the infirmary paid him any mind, thank the stars, and no one in the dining hall did either until he had a plate full and was standing there awkwardly, wondering if it would be too rude to sit at Daud’s usual place.  He _was_ technically in charge, even if he didn’t feel like it. 

 _“Corvo!”_   Emily waved him down from a table close to the wall, and he was barely able to let go of his plate before she stood up in her chair, wobbling dangerously, and flung her arms around his neck. 

“Hey,” he said, letting her hang on as long as she liked.  “I’m glad you’re alright.”  He thought she said _me too_ , but he couldn’t be sure with the way she had her face tucked into his neck.  They sat down to eat and Corvo expected her to talk and talk all through the meal the way she usually did, but she was quiet along with everyone else in the room.  He had never known the Whalers to be that subdued.  He couldn’t fault them for it, though. 

Emily scooted her chair close enough to make it hard to use the fork, and leaned on his arm when she was done, not noticing the way Dodge kept glancing at her, baldly jealous.  Eventually she pulled a small ball of dark red yarn to keep working on a hat.  And while Corvo was no expert, he didn’t think she had enough to make the whole thing one color.  Perhaps that was the plan, though. 

On their way back to the apartment, Corvo and Emily ran into Montgomery, who looked like she’d also had the worst kind of nap. 

“Ah, Corvo.”  She visibly made an effort to perk up and said, “I’ll make a list of everyone who was hurt and”—she faltered, sighed, that shaken look returning— “killed.  It’ll be on Daud’s desk in the morning.” 

Was that something she usually did?  Corvo felt very out of his depth.  It could be useful though, they would—Void, they’d need patrols, and he didn’t know what had happened to Billie, or if any of the Overseers had been left alive, they could be very useful for questioning—

And he realized he had no idea how the Whalers got enough food and medical supplies to keep the whole operation afloat, would he need to somehow acquire more?  The infirmary had been just about full, and he didn’t want to manufacture a crisis out of ignorance. 

He suddenly got the sense that he knew very little indeed about how the Whalers actually _worked_. 

Tomorrow, though.  He would think about it tomorrow when he could ask Leonid and Thomas.  They deserved to have some time to themselves, especially since Leonid was feeling poorly. 

“Alright,” he said, once he’d reined in the tangent.  “I’ll look at it then.” 

Montgomery nodded.  “Emily, how are you?” 

She shrugged.  “I’m okay.” 

“Good.  I promise I’ll show you those prints sometime soon, alright?” 

“Okay.” 

“Well, I’ll not keep you any longer, I’ve not had anything to eat all day.  If you need to know anything, just ask.  You know where to find me.”

Corvo nodded, still thinking he wasn’t up to running things even for just a day or two.  He and Emily didn’t meet anyone else on their way home, and even though it was earlier than they usually went to sleep, they both started getting ready for bed without having to say anything to each other. 

It was a good thing Corvo hurried to pull on his shirt as he always did, because Emily didn’t even pretend that she was going to sleep in her own room and came in to wait for him.  He hurriedly kicked the bloody clothes under the bed so she wouldn’t see and climbed under the blankets.  Emily curled up against him, tucking herself under his arm. 

“Goodnight, Em.” 

“Goodnight.” 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the original plans I made right about a year ago, Arden was meant to die in the Surge, but then I got attached and here we are
> 
> I hope you liked it!


End file.
